Before he could complete his sentence, a thunderous knocking sounded at the front door, causing both hearers to start with astonishment. So loud, so vigorous, so long continued was the assault, that the first surprise deepened into indignation, and Pat’s dark eyes sent out a threatening flash.
“This is too strong! Lost her key, I suppose, and expects me to crawl on all fours to let her in. You go, Glynn, and send her straight here to me! I’ll give her a bit of my mind. I’m just in the mood to do it. Leaving me alone for hours and then knocking down my door—!”
Stephen Glynn crossed the floor, his face set into an alarming sternness, for his irritation against his friend’s neglectful domestic had been growing for weeks, and this was the culminating point. He seized the handle, turned it quietly, and jerked the door open with a disconcerting suddenness which had the effect of precipitating the new-comer into his arms.
“Me dear!” she cried rapturously, as she fell, but the same moment she was upright again, bolt upright, scorching him with disdainful glance. “It’s not!—Where am I? ... They said it was Mr O’Shaughnessy’s flat!”
“It is! It is! Pixie! Pixie! Come in, come quick! Oh, you blessed little simpleton, what’s the meaning of this? You’d no business to come. There’s no room for you. I’m nearly well now. There’s no need—I—I— oh, Pixie!” and poor, tired, hungry Pat lay back weakly in his sister’s arms, and came perilously near subsiding into tears. It had been hard work keeping up his pecker all these long weeks, it was so overwhelmingly home-like to see Pixie’s face, and listen to her deep mellow tones...
“There’s got to be room, me dear, for I’ve come to stay. How dare you be ill by yourself? It’s a bad effect London has had on you to make you so close and secretive. You! Who yelled the roof down if you as much as scratched your finger! We got the note this morning—”
“Glynn made me send it. He’s been worrying at me for weeks. Glynn!” Pat raised his voice to a cry. “Where are you? Come in, you beggar. It’s Pixie! My sister Pixie. Come and shake hands.”
Stephen and Pixie advanced to meet each other, red in the face and bashful of eye. The encounter at the door had been so momentary that she had hardly had time to recognise the pale face with the deep blue eyes, but for him the first note of her voice had been sufficient.
“I—I thought you were Pat!”
“I—I thought you were the cook.”