An ordinary person would have found such a form of comfort far from soothing, but Pixie was an O'Shaughnessy herself, and it _did_ soothe her. She understood that Bridgie and Pat were relieving themselves by saying all that they felt, _more_ than they felt, and that presently the storm would pass and the sun shine again. By to-morrow all bitterness would have passed. She sat in her chair and submitted meekly to be lectured and cajoled, wrapped in a shawl, provided with a footstool, ordered to bed, supplied with smelling-salts, and even--tentatively-- with sal-volatile, but she made no attempt to still the storm. She knew that it would be useless! Finally Pat stumped off to his bedroom, to draft a rough copy of a letter intended to be the most scathing communication which had ever passed through the post; and Bridgie, very white and shaken, seated herself on a chair by her sister's side. "Pixie, dear--I'm afraid we've not been helpful. ... I lost my head, but it was such a shock.--I flew into a passion without hearing what you had to say for yourself. ... Darling, tell me--tell me honestly--_how do you feel_?" "I feel--" Pixie raised both hands, and moved them up and down above her shoulders, as though balancing a heavy load--"as though a great ton weight had been rolled off my shoulders. ... Bridgie! You are angry; I was angry too, but now I've had time to think. ... There have been two and a half years since he went away--that's about nine hundred days. ... Bridgie! If you only knew it--there's not been one day out of all that nine hundred when you hadn't more cause to pity me than you have to-day!--" Suddenly, passionately, she burst into tears. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Two days later Bridgie Victor returned home. The need for chaperonage was over, and it was abundantly evident that Pixie was in no need of consolation. The first shock of disillusionment over, it was pre-eminently relief that she felt--relief from a bond which had weighed more and more heavily as time passed by. If Stanor had come home, looking his old self, caring for her, depending on her as he had done during the days of their brief engagement, she would have been ready and willing to give him her life, but it had been a strange man who had entered the sitting-room of the little flat, a man with a strange face, and a strange voice, and a heart that belonged to another girl. Pixie was _free_; the bonds which had bound her were loosed, and with each hour that passed her liberty became more sweet. She shared in her sister's relief that the understanding with Stanor had been known to no one outside the family, for no human girl enjoys being pitied for such an experience, and Pixie had her own full share of conceit. It was comforting to know that there would be no talk, no fuss; that she could go her way, free from the consciousness of watching eyes.