The second drawing was even rougher than the first, but again the faculty for hitting off a likeness was displayed, for Pat, reclining on a bed sloping at a perilous angle towards the floor, gazed at a fragment of mutton-bone with drooping lids and peaking brows, which represented so precisely his expression when injured, that Stephen shouted once again.
“Succès fou!” commented Pixie jauntily, as she settled herself once more to her work. “Quite a gift, haven’t I? Couldn’t do pretties to save my life, but I can caricature! Now, please, do be quiet! I must get on...”
Half an hour later a loud rapping on the wall announced the awakening of the invalid, who was once more discovered in a fractious mood.
“Asleep! Nonsense! For two minutes, perhaps. How d’you suppose any fellow could sleep, with you two shrieking with laughter every two minutes! If you choose to keep your jokes to yourself, all right, it’s nothing to me; but it’s half-past seven. ... Where’s supper?”
Even as he spoke another rap sounded on the front door—a brisk, imperative rap which brooked no delay. Pixie darted forward, imagining a surprise visit from the doctor, and found herself confronted by a man in black, standing sentinel over a hamper.
“Mr O’Shaughnessy’s flat, madam? I have instructions from Mr Glynn—”
“All right, Saunders, bring it in, bring it in!” cried Stephen quickly. He met Pixie’s eyes, flushed, and stammered—
“It’s ... supper!” he said lamely. “I telephoned. It seemed a good plan, and I thought that, Pat.—Do you mind?”
“Mind!” repeated Pixie, laughing. “Faith I do! I mind very much; but it’s the right way about; it won’t be cold mutton, after all! I’ll have to draw another picture.”
The man carried the hamper into the sitting-room, unpacked it deftly, and laid the contents on the table. Soup, smoking hot from a thermos flask, chicken and salad, a shape of cream, and a fragrant pineapple. Pat’s lips ceased to droop, his eyebrows to peak: his dark eyes lit with enjoyment.