“All right, Pat,” he said. “I’ll come as usual, and if it’s inconvenient you can turn me out; and if Miss O’Shaughnessy will accept me for an escort I’ll be proud to take her about. We’ll begin with the Abbey to-morrow.”
“That’s all right; I thought you would. What’s the good of a prospective uncle if he can’t make himself useful!”
It was the first time Pat had made any reference to Stanor Vaughan, for, like the rest of the family, his pride had been stung by the non-appearance of Pixie’s love, at the expiration of the prescribed two years. Pat knew that occasional letters passed between the young couple, and that the understanding between them appeared unbroken, but it was a poor sort of lover who would voluntarily add to the term of his exile. During the four days which Pixie had spent in the flat, almost every subject under the sun had been discussed but the one which presumably lay nearest the girl’s heart, and that had been consistently shunned. It was only a desire to justify a claim on his friend’s services which had driven Pat to refer to the subject now, and he sincerely wished he had remained silent as he noted the effect of his words. Stephen and Pixie stared steadily into space. Neither spoke, neither smiled; their fixed, blank eyes appeared to give the impression that they had not heard his words. In another moment the silence would have become embarrassing had not Pixie rung the bell and given an order for tea.
“Is this your first experience of living in a flat, Miss O’Shaughnessy? How do you like it, as far as you’ve got?” Stephen asked, with a valiant resolve to second Pixie’s efforts, and she turned her face towards him, slightly flushed, but frank and candid as ever.
“I love it—it’s so social! You know everyone’s business as well as your own. The floors are supposed to be sound-proof, but really they’re so many sounding-boards. The couple above had a quarrel last night—at the high points we could hear every word. It was as good as a theatre, though, of course—” she lengthened her face with a pretence of gravity—“’twas very sad! But they’ve made it up to-day, because she’s singing. She has one song that she sings a dozen times every day ... something about parting from a lover. Pat says she’s been at it for months past—‘Since we parted yester eve.’ ... She feels it, poor creature! I suggested to Pat that we might board him, so that he might always be on the spot, and she wouldn’t have to part. He says it would be worth the money. ... The lady below sings ‘Come back to Erin’ by the hour. She’s always singing it! We thought of sending a polite note to say that we had given her request every consideration, but that owing to the unsettled condition of politics in that country we really did not see our way to move. ... And they have anthracite stoves.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” Stephen asked. He had greeted Pixie’s description with the delight of one who finds a painful situation suddenly irradiated by humour, but the anthracite stoves conveyed no meaning. “Why shouldn’t they, if they choose?”
Pixie scowled disapproval.
“So selfish! Noise like earthquakes every time they rake. I wake every morning thinking I’m dead. This morning I counted sixty separate rakes! Now, here’s a problem for you, Mr Glynn—How can you avenge yourself on an upstairs flatter? If it’s below: it’s quite easy—you just bang with the poker; but how can you do that on your own ceiling? ’Tis no consolation to break the plaster!”
The tea was carried in as she spoke, and she rose to seat herself at the table, giving a friendly smile at the trim maid who had replaced the arrant “housekeeper.”
“Hot scones, Moffatt? You do spoil us!” she said cordially, and the girl left the room abeam with content.