With a darting thought Stanor recalled his impressions on first meeting the girl a week before, and his own outspoken surprise at the insignificance of the sister of his beautiful hostess. A plain, odd little creature, that had been the involuntary verdict, but almost immediately it had been amended. Plain, but charming; distinctly the little thing had charm! Now, at the expiration of six days it had come to this, that his eyes no longer noted the faulty outline, but found a continual joy in watching the play of expression, the vivid life and interest of the sparkling little face. This was the real thing at last, Stanor told himself: it must be the real thing! Mingled with all his excitement and perturbation, he was conscious of a thrill of self-appreciation. It was not every man of his age who would put beauty of character before that of feature. He threw a deliberate _empressement_ into his gaze, and said meaningly-- "Your husband, Miss Pixie, will be a lucky man!" "He will so," agreed Pixie warmly. She gave a soft, musical laugh as if the thought were a pleasant one to dwell on, but Stanor was sensitive enough to realise that his own image played no part in her dreams. She took up her pen and returned to the scribbling of prices on small paper labels. "Russian lace, five shillings a yard. Russian lacquer collar-box. Don't you hate that shiny red? Of course, when I talked of fortunes I was only putting myself in her place. I've nothing. None of us have. When My lover comes, there'll be only--_Me_!" The words sounded modest enough, but there was a complacence in the tilt of the head which told another story. Pixie O'Shaughnessy had no pity to waste on the man who should win herself. Stanor's lip twisted in a self-conscious smile. The other girls had been rich. He pondered for a moment, and then said suddenly-- "I wonder, Miss Pixie, with your temperament, and--er--under the circumstances that you have not been fired with the modern craze to do something before now. Girls nowadays don't seem happy unless they have some work--" "But I _have_, I have! Did you think I was idle?" She looked at him with reproachful eyes. "This is a holiday. I'm sampling luxury for a change, and I won't deny it's agreeable, but at home all the year I'm at work from morning to night. I don't know how to get _through_ my work." So she had a profession then, after all! Stanor felt an amused conviction that whatever the post might be the little thing would fill it uncommonly well. Small and child-like as she appeared, she yet carried with her that air of assurance which is the heritage of the capable. It interested him to consider for a moment what particular role she had adopted, and more than one possibility had passed through his head before he put the question into words-- "And what exactly _do_ you do, Miss Pixie?" She stared at him blankly.