A romp with the children restored Pixie's elastic spirits, and brought a revived wish for her friends' society. She leaned out of the window and beheld a game of tennis on in obvious need of a fourth player, waved gaily in response to a general beckoning, and tripped downstairs singing a glad refrain. And then, in the corridor outside her boudoir, behold a pale and tragic Esmeralda summoning her with a dramatic hand. Pixie flounced, and a quiver of indignation stiffened her small body. A whole hour of a lovely spring morning had already been spent in struggling to overcome the depression caused by the scene at breakfast, and here was Joan obviously preparing a second edition. Pixie was no niggard in sympathy, but for the moment she had other views. Two charming young men were waiting without in the sunshine, and any ordinary human girl prefers the sunshine and masculine society, to a room indoors and an hysterical sister. Therefore, being excessively human, Pixie flounced, and looked bored and impatient. She entered the room and shut the door behind her. "What's the matter _now_?" The answer was sufficiently unexpected. "Pixie, if I die will you promise me faithfully to live here and take charge of my orphan boys?" "I will not!" snapped Pixie sharply. It was just what might have been expected for Esmeralda to picture her own tragic death as the result of a passing squall. Quite possibly she had been sitting for the last hour picturing the stages of her own decline and the grief of the survivors. Strong common sense was the best remedy she could have. "I hope to have my own home to look after. And they are too spoiled. I wouldn't undertake the charge." "Somebody," croaked Esmeralda deeply, "somebody must look after my boys!" "Don't you worry about that. Geoffrey'll marry again. They always do when the children are young." This was deliberate cruelty, but the strain was severe. Stanor was standing, racket in hand, gazing up at the window. The sunshine lit up his handsome face, his expectant smile. Pixie gave another flounce and turned impatiently to meet the next lament; but Esmeralda was silent, her hands were clasped on her knee, and tears--_real_ tears--shone in her eyes. It was a rare thing for Joan to cry; the easy tears which rose to her sisters' eyes in response to any emotion, pleasurable or the reverse, these were not for her. Looking back over the history of their lives, Pixie could count the number of times when she had seen Joan cry. The outside world vanished from her memory in response to that appeal. "Esmeralda! _Darling_! You are not ill? You are not really suffering?" Joan shook her head.