“You’d be wrong there. He might love you enough to wish to save you from a jolly uncomfortable position. It’s not right that a man should be dependent upon his wife. Puts him in a false position.”
“Not if he really loved her. How could it? He’d realise then that in a life together there would be no ‘yours’ or ‘mine.’ It would all be ‘ours.’”
Stanor lifted his head to look at her, and Pixie’s clear eyes met his in a full frank gaze which held no shadow of embarrassment. Here was something quite new—a girl who could speak about love to a young man without a trace of self-consciousness or flirtation, yet with an earnestness which demonstrated a keen personal interest. Stanor had many girl friends with whom he had often discussed the subject, but invariably a certain amount of self-consciousness had crept in, which had shown itself alternately in cynicism or sentimentality.
Now, to his own amazement, he realised that he was the one to feel embarrassment, while Pixie confided her sentiments as placidly as if he had been a maiden aunt. He stared at her as she stood before him, a trim, quaint little figure enveloped in a print overall, beneath which her feet appeared absurdly small and doll-like, and as he looked his heart gave a curious, unexpected leap. He had felt that leap before, and the meaning of it was no mystery to him, though in this particular instance it was sufficiently astonishing.
Handsome, accomplished, the presumptive heir to a fortune, Stanor Vaughan had been a pet of society for the last half-dozen years, and being by nature susceptible to girlish charm had more than once imagined himself seriously in love. There had been, for example, that beautiful blonde whose society had turned a summer holiday into a veritable idyll. He had been on the verge of proposing to her when his uncle had suddenly summoned him home, and—well, somehow the restless misery of the first few days had disappeared with surprising rapidity, the vision had grown dim, and finally faded from sight.
Again it had been a charming brunette, and this time he had been sure of himself, perfectly sure. He was awaiting an opportunity to speak when again a summons had arrived, a pleasant one this time, since it took the form of an invitation to accompany his uncle on a prolonged continental tour. There had been no time to think. He had barely time to pack his bag and be off. And at the end of a month, well! He had begun to hesitate and doubt, and the episode ended like the first.
Curious, when he came to think about it, how the Runkle had in both cases played the part of deus ex machina. It was coincidence, of course, pure coincidence, for the old fellow had not known the girls even by name, but it was odd! As for his own part in the proceeding, both girls had been unusually charming specimens of the modern society girl, it was natural enough that he should have been impressed, but if it was really the fact that he was falling in love with this Irish Pixie, that was another, and a very different matter.
With a darting thought Stanor recalled his impressions on first meeting the girl a week before, and his own outspoken surprise at the insignificance of the sister of his beautiful hostess. A plain, odd little creature, that had been the involuntary verdict, but almost immediately it had been amended. Plain, but charming; distinctly the little thing had charm! Now, at the expiration of six days it had come to this, that his eyes no longer noted the faulty outline, but found a continual joy in watching the play of expression, the vivid life and interest of the sparkling little face. This was the real thing at last, Stanor told himself: it must be the real thing! Mingled with all his excitement and perturbation, he was conscious of a thrill of self-appreciation. It was not every man of his age who would put beauty of character before that of feature. He threw a deliberate empressement into his gaze, and said meaningly—
“Your husband, Miss Pixie, will be a lucky man!”
“He will so,” agreed Pixie warmly. She gave a soft, musical laugh as if the thought were a pleasant one to dwell on, but Stanor was sensitive enough to realise that his own image played no part in her dreams. She took up her pen and returned to the scribbling of prices on small paper labels. “Russian lace, five shillings a yard. Russian lacquer collar-box. Don’t you hate that shiny red? Of course, when I talked of fortunes I was only putting myself in her place. I’ve nothing. None of us have. When My lover comes, there’ll be only—Me!” The words sounded modest enough, but there was a complacence in the tilt of the head which told another story. Pixie O’Shaughnessy had no pity to waste on the man who should win herself.