Stanor’s lip twisted in a self-conscious smile. The other girls had been rich. He pondered for a moment, and then said suddenly—
“I wonder, Miss Pixie, with your temperament, and—er—under the circumstances that you have not been fired with the modern craze to do something before now. Girls nowadays don’t seem happy unless they have some work—”
“But I have, I have! Did you think I was idle?” She looked at him with reproachful eyes. “This is a holiday. I’m sampling luxury for a change, and I won’t deny it’s agreeable, but at home all the year I’m at work from morning to night. I don’t know how to get through my work.”
So she had a profession then, after all! Stanor felt an amused conviction that whatever the post might be the little thing would fill it uncommonly well. Small and child-like as she appeared, she yet carried with her that air of assurance which is the heritage of the capable. It interested him to consider for a moment what particular rôle she had adopted, and more than one possibility had passed through his head before he put the question into words—
“And what exactly do you do, Miss Pixie?”
She stared at him blankly.
“Now, if you’d asked me to say what I do not do, it would have been easier. Have you any sort of idea what it means to keep a home going with big ideas and little means, and a cook-general to thwart your efforts? If you have, you can imagine the list. Dusting, sewing, mending, turning, making, un-making, helping Bridgie, amusing the children, soothing the servants, humouring Dick, making dresses, trimming hats, covering cushions, teaching the alphabet, practising songs, arranging flowers, watering plants, going to shops, making up parcels, writing notes, making—”
Stanor held up his hands in protest.
“Stop! Have pity on me! What an appalling list! Isn’t it nearly done? My ears are deafened! I am overcome with the thought of such activity!” Nevertheless the smile with which he regarded her was distinctly approving, for, like most men, he preferred domestic women who did not despise home work. “I’ll tell you what it is,” he added warmly, “Mrs Victor is like the other fellow—jolly lucky to have you! There are precious few girls who would give up their whole lives to a sister.”
“Bridgie is more than a sister. She’s meant father and mother and home to me for over ten years. My parents died when I was so young.”