The world looked very black to Pat O’Shaughnessy for the rest of that day, and atmospheric conditions did not help to cheer him. It was raining, a slow, relentless rain, and in the air for days past had been a rawness, a chill which crept to the very bone. Pixie drew the curtains over every chink, and hung a shawl over the end of Pat’s bed to still further screen him from draughts, but Pat was not in the mood to be coddled, and had that shawl whisked to the ground before one could say Jack Robinson. He was curt and silent in his manner, and—rare and significant sign!—partook of a fragmentary tea. Nothing was right; everything was wrong; his patience was exhausted, and though he remained studiously polite to his friend, with his sister he unrestrainedly “let himself go.”
“Don’t wriggle, Pixie! ... Don’t shout!—Don’t tell us that story all over again. ... Don’t lean against my bed. ... Don’t sit between me and the fire!” so on it went all through the afternoon, which as a rule was so cheery and peaceful, and if Pixie preserved a placid composure, Stephen Glynn was far from following her example. He relapsed into a frigid silence, which added but another element to the general discomfort.
The final stroke came when Pixie lifted the despised shawl and attempted to wrap it round Pat’s shoulders, and was rudely repulsed, and told to mind her own business and not be a fool. Then, with his air of grand seigneur, Stephen Glynn rose from his chair and made his adieux. Cold as crystal was his manner as he extended his hand to the invalid on his bed, and Pixie followed him on to the little landing, apologetic and miserable.
“You are going so soon? If you could stay and talk hard it might divert him from himself. He needs diverting!”
“I cannot,” Stephen declared. “It’s beyond me. After all you have done—after all your care, to speak to you so rudely!—”
He had passed through the front door of the flat, and Pixie stood within the threshold, her hand clasping the handle of the door, her face, tired and strained, raised to his own.
“He didn’t!” she cried quickly. “Oh, he didn’t. It wasn’t Pat who spoke—it was the pain, the pain, and the tiredness and the disappointment. They force out the words. Haven’t you found that yourself? But his heart doesn’t mean them. He’s all raw and hurting, and I worried him. ... I shouldn’t have done it! You must be angry with me, not with Pat.”
Stephen gave her a long, strange look.
“I think I—” he began, and stopped short suddenly.
“What?” queried Pixie, and there was a long pause.