He took her hand and held it in his, the while he stared down at her upturned face. His brows contracted, as though what he saw was more painful than pleasant. “I guess you’ve been having a bad time,” he said. “I was sorry to hear your brother’s been sick.”
“He is better now,” Pixie said, and gently withdrew her hand.
Two and a half years’ waiting, and this was the meeting! She drew herself up, with the little air of dignity which she knew so well how to assume, and waved him to a seat.
“Won’t you sit down? I will give you some tea. It is all ready, and the kettle is boiling. When did you arrive in town?”
“Two hours ago. I went straight to my hotel to write some letters, and then came along here. ... This is your brother’s apartment? Nice little place! It’s good news that he is better! Hard luck on him to be bowled over like that!”
The accent, the intonation carried Pixie’s thoughts irresistibly towards another speaker, whose memory war associated with her own first meeting with Stanor. On the spur of the moment she mentioned her name.
“Where is Honor Ward? Is she in London, too?”
Stanor started; over his features passed a quiver as of anxiety or dread. He glanced across the fireplace, and the new keenness in his eyes became still more marked.
“Er—no! She stopped half way. Later on ... perhaps—”
“She is quite well?”