philosopher? I should like to know to whom I am talking.”
“I’m Pixie O’Shaughnessy, and Geoffrey married my sister Esmeralda. He came over to Ireland and fell in love with her in spite of me telling him about her bad temper, thinking of course that he was a perfect stranger. I apologised to him after it was settled and said there was nothing really wrong with her, for she’d always rather be pleasant than not, only at times it’s easier to be nasty, and she’s been lazy from her youth. The night they met they mistook each other for ghosts, and Esmeralda clung to his arm and screeched for help.
“There was never a thing that girl was frightened at, all her life, until now, and, would you believe it?—it’s her own servants! Of course in Ireland they were like friends, as free and easy as we were ourselves, and entering into the conversation at table; but Geoffrey’s Englishmen are so solemn and proper that she lives in terror of shocking their feelings. One day the butler found her kissing Geoffrey, believing they were alone, and she waited for him to say, ‘Allow me, madam!’ as he always does if she ventures to do a hand’s turn for herself. She’s says it’s dispiriting to think you can’t even quarrel in peace for fear of interruption, and it takes a good deal to interrupt Esmeralda when once she’s started.”
The Duchess screwed up her bright little eyes, and her shoulders shook beneath her black lace cape. Sylvia and her companion, watching the strangely assorted pair from across the room, saw Pixie move nearer and nearer, and whisper a long dramatic history; saw the Duchess nod her head in appreciation of the various points, and heard the burst of laughter which greeted the dénouement. Everyone stopped talking and stared with inquiring eyes. Esmeralda turned towards the lounge, anxiety thinly disguised by smiles, and, seeing her, the Duchess rose from her seat with a sigh of regret.
“Your sister is a born story-teller, Mrs Hilliard. I wish I had more time to listen. Please ask me to meet her again! It is a long time since I have been so amused.”
Here was praise indeed! Esmeralda beamed with satisfaction, and seized Pixie’s hand with an unusual outburst of affection.
“How noble of you, dear! She was looking as bored as bored, and I was at my wits’ end. What did you tell her that made her laugh like that?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just things about ourselves, and the adventures at home. ’Twas the beeswax pudding that pleased her most,” said Pixie easily, and wondered at Esmeralda’s sudden extinction of interest.
“Now what disclosures has that child been making next!” cried the freckled girl, looking on at this little scene with curious eyes. “I doubt whether Esmeralda appreciates them as much as the Duchess. We used to say at home that if there was one thing which should not be revealed, Pixie was bound to choose it as the subject of conversation on the first possible occasion! And she was so sweet and innocent about it, too, that it was impossible to be angry. I expect you have found out that for yourself?”
“Yes—No!” said Sylvia absently, for she was thinking less of what she was saying than of certain phrases which her companion had just uttered. “We used to say at home.” Who was this, then, who had known Pixie O’Shaughnessy in bygone days—could it by any chance be the dreaded rival towards whom she was prepared to cherish so ardent a dislike? She stared at the honest, kindly face, and felt that it would be difficult to harbour a prejudice against its owner, even if—if— “Are you Miss Burrell?” she asked, and Mollie smiled assent.