Just before the clock struck the hour Bridgie paid a flying visit to the little sitting-room to see that the tea-table was set, the kettle on the hob, the dish of hot scones on the brass stand in the fender, and everything ready to hand, so that no one need enter unless specially summoned. She found Pixie standing gazing into the fire, and started with surprise and disappointment. "_Pixie_, your dress! That dull old thing? Why not your pink? Me dear, you've time. ... There's still time. ... Run off and change it!" But Pixie shook her head. "Bridgie, _don't fuss_!" she said, and there was a note in her voice which checked the words on Bridgie's lips. She literally dared not say any more, but her heart was heavy with disappointment. She had been so anxious that Pixie should look her best for this important interview, had been so complacently satisfied that the rose-coloured gown was as becoming as it could be, and now the aggravating, mysterious little thing had deliberately left it hanging in the wardrobe, and put on instead an old brown dress which had been a failure at the beginning, and was now well advanced in middle age. One result of Pixie's sojourn in Paris had been an acquired faculty for making the best of herself: she put on her clothes with care, she wore them "with an air," she dressed her hair with neat precision, and then with a finger and thumb gave a tweak here, a pat there, which imparted to the final effect something piquant and attractive. To-day it appeared as if that transforming touch had been forgotten, and Bridgie, looking on, felt that pang of distress which all motherly hearts experience when their nurslings show otherwise than at their best. "Are you not going to sit with Pat?" inquired Pixie at the end of a pregnant silence, and at that very obvious hint Bridgie retired perforce, repeating gallantly to herself, "Looks don't matter! Looks don't matter! They don't matter a bit!" and believing just as much of what she said as would any other young woman of her age. Another ten minutes and the sound of the electric bell rang sharply round the flat. The door opened and shut, and Moffatt, entering the sitting-room in advance, announced loudly-- "Mr Vaughan!" A tall, fair man entered with a rapid step. Pixie looked at him, and felt a consciousness of unutterable strangeness. This was not the man from whom she had parted on the deck of that ocean-bound steamer! This man was older, broader; the once lazy, laughter-loving eyes were keen and shrewd. His shoulders also were padded into the exaggerated square, characteristic of American tailors. "Well--Pixie!" Even the voice was strange. It had absorbed the American accent, the American clip and drawl. Pixie had the consciousness of struggling with stiffened features which refused to smile. "Well--Stanor!"