And then, as usual, Pixie did the unexpected thing. The sisters were sitting together at tea the day before Stephen was expected, when suddenly she looked across the room, and said as quietly and naturally as if she had been asking the time—
“Do ye think now, Bridgie, that he will ask me to marry him?”
Bridgie started. Up to her cheeks flew the red. It was she who was embarrassed, she who stammered and crumbled the hem of the tablecloth.
“My dear, I don’t know! How should I? How can I possibly know?”
“I didn’t ask you if you knew. I asked if you thought.”
“I—don’t know what to think. ... I know what he wants! But he is so sensitive, so humble about himself. He thinks he is too old, and ... and his lameness—he exaggerates things all round. From what he said to me in that letter—”
“That letter you wouldn’t show me?”
“Yes. I couldn’t, Pixie! It was in confidence, and besides, he said nothing definite. It was only inferred. It’s just because he idealises you so much that he thinks he is not worthy. No one can tell what a man will do when it comes to the time, but what he means to do is evidently—to say nothing!”
“Oh!” said Pixie. She nibbled a fragment of cake for a thoughtful moment, and then said calmly—
“So now I know. Thank you, Bridgie. Please don’t say any more!”