“Fire away, I don’t mind! Your muscles would be the better for a little exercise.”
Stephen Glynn leaned back in his chair and looked affectionately at Pat’s dark, handsome face.
Twelve months before the two men had been introduced at a dinner following a big cricket match in which Pat had distinguished himself by a fine innings.
Stephen Glynn from his seat on the grand stand had applauded with the rest of the great audience, and looking at the printed card in his hand had wondered whether by chance P.D. O’Shaughnessy was any relation of the Irish Pixie to whom Stanor Vaughan had wished to be engaged. The wonder changed to certainty a few hours later on as he was introduced to the young player, and met the gaze of his straight, dark eyes! Pat was the handsomest of the three brothers, nevertheless it was not so much of beautiful Joan Hilliard that the beholder was reminded, at this moment, as of the younger sister, who had no beauty at all, for Esmeralda’s perfect features lacked the irradiation of kindliness and humour which characterised Pat and Pixie alike.
Stephen Glynn was not given to sudden fancies, but Pat O’Shaughnessy walked straight into his heart at that first meeting, and during the year which followed the acquaintance so begun had ripened into intimacy. Stephen spent a great part of his time in chambers in town, where the young man became a welcome guest, and no sooner had Pat soared to the giddy height of possessing a flat of his own, and settled down as a householder, than the accident had happened which made him dependent on the visits of his friends.
Pat was aware of Stephen’s connection with his family, and more especially with Pixie, but after one brief reference the subject had been buried, though Pixie herself was frequently mentioned. There was a portrait of her on Pat’s mantelpiece to which Stephen’s eyes often strayed during his visits to the flat. Truth to tell it was not a flattering portrait. Pixie was unfortunate so far as photography was concerned, since all her bad points were reproduced and her charm disappeared. Stephen wondered if Stanor were gazing at the same photograph in New York, and if his imagination were strong enough to supply the want. For himself he had no difficulty. So vivid was his recollection that even as he looked the set face of the photograph seemed to flash into smiles...
“Well, I am glad you have given in,” he said, continuing his sentence after a leisurely pause, “because my threat was real. I should certainly have written to your people if you hadn’t done it yourself. You are not being properly looked after, young man. To put it bluntly, you are not having enough to eat. When do you expect that obnoxious old female to come back and make tea?”
“’Deed, I’ve given over expecting,” said Pat despondently. “Most days I’m ready to drink the teapot by the time she brings it in. It’s a toss up if we get it at all to-day as she’s gone out.”
Stephen rose to his tall height and stood smiling down at the tired face.
“You shall have it, my boy. I’ll make it myself. It won’t be the first time. Have you any idea where the crocks live? I don’t want to upset—”