“She adores me—all maids do,” announced Pixie, with her complacent air well to the fore. “It’s the way I treat them. My sister, now—Bridgie Victor—she’s a coward with her maids. She lies awake half the night rehearsing the best ways of hinting that she’d prefer pastry lighter than lead, after begging us all as a personal favour to eat it in case cook should be hurt. When I have a house—” She stopped short and busied herself with her duties, and neither of her listeners questioned her further on the subject.
Tea was a merry meal, and Pat consumed the dainty fare with undisguised enjoyment.
“That’s the pull of an accident,” he declared, as he helped himself to a third scone, “ye can eat! It’s awful to think of poor beggars on a diet. ... Let’s have muffins to-morrow, Pixie, swimming with butter. Glynn’s coming!”
“Don’t tempt me! I am coming to lunch, but you won’t want me to stay on.”
“Rubbish! We do. Stay for the whole day, and Pixie shall sing to us. It’s the least she can do, if you take her to church.”
Stephen looked at his hostess with a glance curiously compounded of dread and expectation. Music was the passion of his life, so true a passion that it was torture to him to hear the travesties which passed under its name. Bearing in mind the very small proportion of girls who could really sing, he wished that the proposal had never been made, since the result would probably mean a jarring episode in a delightful day.
“But you have no piano,” he said uncertainly. “How can—”
“It’s not a piano would stop me, if I wanted to sing. I don’t need an accompaniment,” Pixie declared, and Stephen shuddered in spirit. Unaccompanied songs were terrible ordeals to the listeners. Eyes as well as ears were tortured. One never knew where to look! He pondered as he drank his tea how the situation could be ameliorated, if not escaped, and reminded himself thankfully that if necessary he could hire a piano and send it in. Then, looking up, he met Pat’s eyes fixed upon him with a quizzical smile. Pat showed at times an uncomfortable faculty for, reading his friends’ thoughts, and Stephen realised that it was in force at this minute, and was thankful that at least it did not find vent in words. Pixie’s happy complacence about her own powers was so far removed from ordinary conceit that he dreaded to wound it. He therefore hastily changed the conversation, and avoided the subject of music for the rest of his call.
The next morning, after arranging for Pat’s comfort, Pixie retired to her eerie, and spent what appeared to the invalid an unconscionably long time over her toilette. After the cheerful manner of flats, by slightly raising the voice it was easy to carry on a conversation with a person in an adjoining room, and Pat therefore favoured his sister with a statement that he “expected to see something pretty fetching, after all this time!” “Ha! Ha!” cried Pixie in return, and her voice gave no hint of modesty. Nevertheless, and for all his expectations, Pat gave a gasp of surprise when a few minutes later she sailed into the room.
She wore a coat and skirt of a soft, mouse-coloured velvet, very quiet and nondescript in hue, and the hat, with its curling brim, was covered with the same material. So far, very douce and quiet; but entirely round the hat, and curling gracefully over one side, was a magnificent ostrich plume, which was plainly the pride of its owner’s heart. She tossed her head in answer to Pat’s uplifted hands, pirouetted round and round, and struck a telling attitude.