"Pixie, will you marry me?" "Yes, Stanor, I will. If you want me..." CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. "WHAT HAVE I DONE?" There was a moment's silence, a moment which seemed like an hour. Then Stanor spoke-- "Thank you, Pixie!" He put his arms round her, made as if to kiss her cheek, but the small hands held him off with unexpected strength. "Not yet! Not yet! You haven't answered my question!" "What question?" "_If you want me_?" The grey eyes were very near his own. They seemed to search into his very soul. "_Do_ you want me, Stanor?" "Pixie, what a question! You ... you _know_ the answer." "I think I do." She nodded her head with a grave certainty. "I'm sure I do. ... You _don't_ want me, Stanor!" He started at that, and his hands relaxed their hold. The dull red flush mounted once more to his forehead, his lips twitched, and twitched again. The man was suffering, and the marks of his pain were plain to read. "Why ... should you say that? Pixie, what is it? I explained about that extra six months. ... You said you understood. It was part of the agreement that we were not to write except on occasions. Were my letters wrong? Didn't they please you? I was never a good hand at letter-writing. Was that it? What was it? What have I done, Pixie, to make you doubt me?" "I don't think," said Pixie dreamily, "you have done anything." It seemed for a moment as if she had nothing more to say, then suddenly she asked another question: "Stanor! That day in Liverpool, on the landing-stage, did you notice a girl standing near me--a girl with a fur cap?" "No, Pixie. I noticed only one girl--yourself!" "She was parting from a man--her lover or husband--who was leaning over the rail and looking down at her. Stanor ... they ... _cared_! They loved each other. ... All these years I have had their faces in my heart. I looked at them, and I looked at you, and I understood the difference!" "I was miserable enough, Pixie. All men do not show their feelings in the same way."