“Halloo, what’s this?” Stanor stared in surprise. “Said the wrong thing, have I? What have I said? He seems old, you know, if he isn’t actually so in years. I used to look upon him as a patriarch. Not so much his looks as his character. Such a sombre old beggar!”
“He wasn’t sombre with us!”
Memory flashed back pictures of Stephen’s face as he sat in the arm-chair by the fire, listening to those impromptu concerts which had enlivened Pat’s convalescence. Pixie saw him as he leaned forward in his chair, waving his hand baton-like, heard his voice, joining lustily in the “Matches” chorus. In that very room—in the very chair in which Stanor now sat. ... What centuries seemed to have lolled by, between that day, and this!
“Wasn’t he? That’s good! I’m glad to hear that,” Stanor said perfunctorily. “It takes time, of course, to get out of invalid ways. I shall have to be running down to see him one of these days.”
“Oh, of course; he’ll expect you. And then—then you’ll begin your work over here. In London, I suppose?”
“I ... er ... the firm is in town. There—er—there will be a lot to arrange.” Suddenly Stanor leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes searching her face. “Pixie, this is an odd sort of conversation for our first meeting! ... We’ve got wrong somehow. ... Can’t we get right? Why waste time on generalities. ... Are you glad to see me back, Pixie?”
“I am!” Pixie’s eyes gazed back without a flicker. “When I got your letter I was—thankful! I think it was—time—you came back.”
“Have you missed me, Pixie, while, I’ve been away?”
Now she hesitated, but her eyes remained steady and candid.
“It had been such a little time, you know; and you had never stayed with us at home. I could hardly miss you out of my life, but I ... thought of you!”