From his own point of view, moreover, he was relieved not to begin his business life in London, where so far he had been free to pursue his pleasures only. To be cooped up in a dull city office, while but a mile or two away his friends were taking part in the social functions of the season, would be an exasperating experience, whereas in New York he would be troubled by no such comparisons, but would find much to enjoy in the novelty of his surroundings. Two years would soon pass, and at the end he would come home to an assured position, marry Pixie, and live happily ever after. He sat gazing thoughtfully into space, the fingers of his right hand slowly stroking his chin, a picture of handsome, young manhood, while the deep blue eyes of Stephen Glynn watched him intently from across the room. A long minute of silence; then the two pairs of eyes met, and Stanor found himself flushing with a discomfort as acute as mysterious. He straightened himself, and put a hasty question-- "What does Pixie say?" "Miss O'Shaughnessy was--" Stephen hesitated over the word--"she seemed to think that my wishes should have weight. She will consent to anything that seems for your good. She said that two years would quickly pass." Stanor frowned. The thought had passed through his own brain, but no man could approve of such sentiments on the part of a _fiancee_. There was an edge of irritation in his voice-- "Of course your wishes should be considered. I don't need any one to teach me that. I am quite willing to go to America and do my best. I shall be glad of the change, but it's nonsense to talk of not being bound. We _are_ bound! We need not correspond regularly, if you make a point of that. I don't think much of letters in any case. Writing once a week, or once in two or three months, can make no difference. There's only _one_ thing that counts!" Stephen assented gravely. "Just so. From what I have seen of Miss O'Shaughnessy, I realise that her only hope of happiness is to marry a man who can give her a whole-hearted love." Stanor's glance held a mingling of surprise and displeasure--surprise that the Runkle should offer any opinion at all on matters sentimental; displeasure, that any one should dictate to him concerning Pixie's welfare. He switched the conversation back to more practical matters. "When shall I start? The sooner the better. If the post is open there is no object in wasting time." His face lit up with sudden animation. "I say! Could we manage it in a fortnight, should you think? Miss Ward is sailing by the `Louisiana,' and it would be topping if I could go by the same boat. I might wire to-day about a berth." "Who is Miss Ward?"