“Did you, Pixie? Did you, little Pixie? ... I wonder what you thought!”
Pixie did not answer that question. The answer would have been too long, too complicated. She smiled, a wistful little smile, and turned away her head.
Then Stanor rose. She heard him rise, heard the chink of the tea-things on the tray as he pressed upon it in rising, heard his footsteps passing round the table towards her chair, heard in a sickening silence his summoning voice—
“Pixie!”
“Stanor!”
They looked at each other;—white, strained, tense.
“Pixie, will you marry me?”
“Yes, Stanor, I will. If you want me...”