“Now that depends upon what ye talk about, Mademoiselle,” said Pixie, with that air of quaint candour which her companions had been wont to find so amusing; and Mademoiselle first smiled, and then looked grave enough.
“I am not going to question you about your trouble, if you mean that, Pixie. It is Miss Phipps’s affair now, not mine. I wish you had been more outspoken, but I am not going to scold you again. You are being punished already, and I feel sorry to see you so grave and to hear no more laughs and jokes. Shall we ’ave what they call an armistice, and talk together as we used to do when we were very good friends?”
She held out her hand as she spoke, and Pixie’s thin fingers grasped hers with a force that was almost painful. She looked overcome with gratitude, nevertheless, now that it had been agreed to talk, both felt a decided difficulty in deciding what to talk about, for even a temporary coldness between friends heaps up many barriers, and in this particular case it was difficult to feel once more at ease and unconstrained. It was Pixie who spoke first, and her voice was full of shy eagerness.
“How’s your father, Mademoiselle? Is he having his health any better than it was?”
“A little—yes, a little better. He is in the South with my brother until the cold winds are over in Paris. He is like me—he hates to be cold, so he is very happy down there in the sunshine. I told you about him then, did I? I had forgotten that.”
“Yes, you told me that day when I—when I lassoed you on the stairs, and I wrote the verb not to be rude to you any more. You said I would remember that, and I do; but perhaps you think I have done something worse than being rude, Mademoiselle! I want to know—please tell me!—can your bottle be stuck together so that you can use it again?”
Mademoiselle’s face clouded over. She had recovered from her first violent anger about the accident, but it was still too sore a subject to be lightly touched.
“No,” she said shortly, “it cannot mend. I tried. I thought I might use it still as an ornament, but the pieces will not fit. There is perhaps something missing. I have just to make up my mind that it is gone for ever. It seems as if I should never know what happened to it.”
An expression of undoubted relief and satisfaction passed over Pixie’s face as she heard these last words, but Mademoiselle was gazing disconsolately in the fire, and it had passed before she looked up. Perhaps she had hoped that her words would draw forth some sort of confession, but, if so, she was fated to be disappointed, for when Pixie spoke again it was to broach another subject.
“Mademoiselle, I’ve a favour to ask you! I’ve been afraid to do it before, but you are so kind to-day that I’m not frightened any longer. It’s about the party at the end of the term. The girls say they always have one, and they will be broken-hearted if they miss that as well as all the holidays. It is no use my asking, because it’s me that’s in trouble, but, Mademoiselle, it was your bottle that was broken. If you asked Miss Phipps, she couldn’t find the heart in her to say no! Please, Mademoiselle, will you ask if the girls can have their party the same as ever?”