There was a dead silence, while each one of the three hearers realised the futility of the excuse. Stephen’s estate was in the hands of a capable agent: an extra week’s absence could make little difference; moreover, previous statements had made it plain that he had originally intended to stay for some considerable time in town. Plain, therefore, as print, and impossible to misunderstand was the fact that he did not want to accompany his friends on their holiday; that in addition he did not for the moment desire more of their company in town.
Bridgie raised her head: she was smiling, a bright, unaffected, relieved-looking smile.
“There’s no end to the work on a big estate. The Major—my father—used to say that every man was his own best bailiff, though he made a fine muddle of it himself, poor darling! But my brother Jack agrees with him. He’s educated Miles to look after the Irish property, and so does Geoffrey Hilliard. ... It’s true he is away half his time—”
At the best of times Bridgie was scarcely a special pleader, and to-day she seemed no sooner to make a statement than she contradicted it straight away. She mumbled vaguely, and relapsed into silence.
“Of course we won’t take your car. You will need it for your business excursions!” Pat said icily. “We are very much indebted to you for letting us have the use of it here. It’s been of great service, hasn’t it, Pixie?”
“It has! I don’t know what we’d have done without it. We are grateful,” agreed Pixie warmly. Her voice out of all the four was the only one which rang true; her eyes smiled across the room with unembarrassed friendliness. Nevertheless Bridgie, looking on, felt a cramp of pain. How much older Pixie had grown in appearance! The lines of strain and repression over which she had sighed more than once before now had surely deepened during the last weeks! Anxiety, no doubt, the strain of nursing—Bridgie comforted herself as best she might, but no explanation could take away the pang which the mother heart feels at the sight of pain on a young face!
“Come, Pixie,” she said, rising, “we’ll make tea! I promised Pat potato cakes as soon as the doctor allowed them, and that’s to-day. We’ll have a feast!—”
“Leave them to themselves,” she said confidingly to Pixie when the kitchen was reached. “They’ll shake down better without us. Pat’s fractious; he always was from a child when he was crossed, but the potato cakes will soothe him. I’m sorry for Mr Glynn. Really, you know, dear, Pat’s exacting!”
“’Deed he is. It’s no wonder he is tired of it.” Bridgie needed no explanation as to the significance of that second he. “He’s been fussing about us for weeks, and now he’ll go home and rest. It’s a good thing! Will I mash the potatoes for you, Bridgie?”
“Thank you, darling,” said Bridgie humbly, but her face remained troubled. Once more, and with all her heart, she wished that Pixie were safe at home.