The rumble of men’s voices could be heard from the kitchen—an amicable rumble it appeared to be, though with mysterious breaks from time to time. Bridgie bustled in, tea-tray in hand, in the middle of one of these breaks, and surprised a look of sadness on each face. She decided that Stephen was to depart forthwith, but such was not the case, since over tea he alluded to an old promise to take Pixie to the Temple, and included Bridgie in an invitation for the following Sunday.
“And then I must be off—on Monday—or—or perhaps on Tuesday,” he said vaguely. “One day next week.”
“I leave on Monday too,” said Bridgie, and ate her potato cake with recovered zest.
Chapter Twenty Four.
He loves You.
That evening Pat showed early signs of fatigue, and requested Bridgie to settle him for the night, bidding the while so marked a farewell to Pixie that she had no alternative but to retire forthwith to her own room. Truth to tell she was not sorry, for sleep had been an uncertain quantity of late, and the prospect of a long undisturbed night was agreeable. She dallied over her undressing, and when Bridgie joined her half an hour later, sat perched upon the bed, dressing-gowned, her hands clasped round her knees, watching with admiring eyes the picture of her sweet-faced sister seated before the dressing-table engaged in brushing out her long fair hair.
“You’ve a fine head of hair, me dear! It’s wearing well. ... D’you remember the day you and Esmeralda had the trick played on you about going to bed, and sat up half the night brushing and combing to tire out the other?”
“I do so,” answered Bridgie, but it was but a faint smile which she gave to the memory of that youthful joke. She parted her hair with a sweep of the brush, and gazing at her sister between the long gold strands said suddenly, and earnestly, “Pixie!”