There are points in which the small garden has a pull over the large. Its owner can, for instance, remember just how many blooms a special plant afforded last summer, and feel a glow of pride in the extra two of the present season; she can water them herself, tie up their drooping heads, snip off the dead flowers, know them, and love them in an intimate, personal way which is impossible in the large, professionally-run gardens. Bridgie's garden this summer afternoon made a very charming background for the figure of Pixie in her white dress, with the jaunty blue band round her waist, and a little knot to match fastening her muslin Peter Pan collar. She looked very young and fresh and dainty, and the wistful expression deepened on Stephen's face as he looked at her. For the first few minutes conversation was difficult, for the consciousness of being alone seemed rather to close the way to personal subjects than to open it. Stephen was grave and distrait, Pixie embarrassed and nervous, but the real deep sympathy between them made it impossible that such an atmosphere should continue. Before ten minutes had passed Pixie's laugh had sounded with the characteristic gurgle which was the very embodiment of merriment, and Stephen was perforce laughing in response. He had never been able to resist Pixie's laugh. Tea was brought in, and the young hostess did the honours with a pretty hospitality. It was the first meal of which they had partaken _a deux_, and its homely intimacy brought back the wistful look into Stephen's eyes. Perhaps Pixie noticed it, perhaps a point had been reached when she felt it impossible to go on talking generalities; in any case, she laid down her cup, straightened herself in her chair with an air of preparing for something big and momentous, and announced clearly-- "I had a letter this morning from Honor Vaughan." Stephen Glynn started, and his face hardened. The subject was evidently unwelcome to the point of pain. "She writes to _you_?" "I write to her! Of course she answers. I was always fond of Honor." "Possibly. Before her marriage. As Stanor's wife, however--" Pixie bent forward, looking him full in the face. "I have no quarrel with Stanor's wife. I was angry with _him_. There was something in me which he hurt very much.--I think," she slightly shrugged her shoulder, and a flicker of a smile passed over her face, and was gone, "'twas my pride! It hurt to think he had been _forced_ to come back. If he'd trusted me and told the truth it would have saved suffering for us--all! At the time I felt I could never forgive him, but that passed. I don't say I can ever think of him as I did before, as quite honest and true, but--" The smile flashed back. "Can _you_ go on being angry, yourself?"