"You're right there, Pixie; that's so, if you are built the right way! But some of us--" He checked himself, and began afresh in a voice of enforced enthusiasm. "Well!--and then you came up here to nurse your brother, and found the Runkle already in possession. I _was_ surprised to read about that in your letter at Liverpool. Odd, isn't it, how things come about? And how _is_ the old fellow?" Again Pixie's eyes sent out a flash. How was it that every fresh thing that Stanor said seemed to hurt her in a new place? "Considering his great years and infirmities, the old fellow seems surprisingly well." "Halloo, what's this?" Stanor stared in surprise. "Said the wrong thing, have I? What have I said? He seems old, you know, if he isn't actually so in years. I used to look upon him as a patriarch. Not so much his looks as his character. Such a sombre old beggar!" "He wasn't sombre with _us_!" Memory flashed back pictures of Stephen's face as he sat in the arm-chair by the fire, listening to those impromptu concerts which had enlivened Pat's convalescence. Pixie saw him as he leaned forward in his chair, waving his hand baton-like, heard his voice, joining lustily in the "Matches" chorus. In that very room--in the very chair in which Stanor now sat. ... What centuries seemed to have lolled by, between that day, and this! "Wasn't he? That's good! I'm glad to hear that," Stanor said perfunctorily. "It takes time, of course, to get out of invalid ways. I shall have to be running down to see him one of these days." "Oh, of course; he'll expect you. And then--then you'll begin your work over here. In London, I suppose?" "I ... er ... the firm is in town. There--er--there will be a lot to arrange." Suddenly Stanor leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes searching her face. "Pixie, this is an odd sort of conversation for our first meeting! ... We've got wrong somehow. ... Can't we get right? Why waste time on generalities. ... Are you _glad_ to see me back, Pixie?" "I am!" Pixie's eyes gazed back without a flicker. "When I got your letter I was--thankful! I think it was--time--you came back." "Have you missed me, Pixie, while, I've been away?" Now she hesitated, but her eyes remained steady and candid. "It had been such a little time, you know; and you had never stayed with us at home. I could hardly _miss_ you out of my life, but I ... _thought_ of you!" "Did you, Pixie? Did you, little Pixie? ... I wonder _what_ you thought!" Pixie did not answer that question. The answer would have been too long, too complicated. She smiled, a wistful little smile, and turned away her head. Then Stanor rose. She heard him rise, heard the chink of the tea-things on the tray as he pressed upon it in rising, heard his footsteps passing round the table towards her chair, heard in a sickening silence his summoning voice-- "Pixie!" "Stanor!" They looked at each other;--white, strained, tense.