At this moment, however, there was no jury at hand—only Pixie O’Shaughnessy, feeling very small and snubbed in her corner of the sofa, and robbed for the moment of her accustomed aplomb by the blighting consciousness that she was not wanted.
Robert Carr’s chin was leaning very dejectedly forward; he would have voted his companion a tongue-tied little bore if Stanor Vaughan had not taken the opportunity of a moment when his host was absent from the dining-room to recount her “sporting” forgiveness of his own faux pas.
“That’s the right sort. I like that girl!” had been Robert’s reply, and the good impression was strong enough to withstand a fair amount of discouragement.
So he discoursed to Pixie on the subject of pictures, of which she knew nothing; and she switched the conversation round to music, of which he knew less; and she cast furtive glances of longing towards the other couple, who were laughing and chattering together with every appearance of enjoyment, and he kept his eyes rigorously averted, while his chin drooped ever lower and lower in growing depression. Later on the whole party played several rather foolish games, of which Pixie had never heard before, and in which she consequently did not shine, which was still another depressing circumstance to add to the list.
When Esmeralda escorted her sister upstairs to bed she said blightingly, “You were very dull to-night, Pixie. Were you shy, by any chance? Please don’t be shy; it’s such poor form!” which was not the most soothing night-cap in the world for a young woman who had privately made up her mind to take society by storm. Not since the first night in the dormitory at Holly House had Pixie felt so lone and lorn as she did when the door was shut, and she was left alone in the big, luxurious bedroom. She stood before a swing mirror, gazing at her own reflection, contrasting it with those of Esmeralda and Honor, and reflecting on her sister’s parting words.
“This,” said she to herself, with melancholy resignation—“this is the sort of discipline that is good for the young! At this rate I’ll grow so chastened that they won’t recognise me when I go home.” For a whole, minute she stood mute and motionless, pondering over the prospect; then the light danced back into her eyes, she shrugged her shoulders, and composedly began her undressing.
The next day broke bright and warm, and after a leisurely breakfast the four visitors strolled about for an hour, looking at the dogs and horses and playing with the two small boys, who were making all the mischief they could on the cedar lawn, while their French nurse looked on with sympathetic enjoyment.
Marie was quite a character in the household, and was admitted to a degree of intimacy rarely accorded to an English domestic. She was that somewhat unusual combination, a Parisian Protestant, but in other respects remained one of the most typically French creatures who was ever born. Meet her in any quarter of the world, in any nation, in any garb, and for no fraction of a moment could the beholder doubt her nationality. She was French in appearance, in expression, in movement, in thought, in character, and in deed; lovable, intelligent, vivacious, easily irritated, but still more easily pleased, sharp of tongue, tender of heart, and full to overflowing with humour. In appearance Marie was small and slight, with a sallow complexion which was the bane of her life, black hair and beautiful white teeth. No one could call her handsome, but she had certainly an attraction of her own.
This morning Pixie arrived upon the scene in time to overhear a typical conversation between the nurse and her two charges. Geoff, the elder of the two brothers, a handsome, imperious youngster, having overheard a chance remark as to his own likeness to his mother, was engaged in a rigorous cross-questioning of Marie, on the subject.
“Marie, am I beautiful?”