“What strong?”
“Tea! What else could it be? We were talking of tea.”
“I beg your pardon. So we were. Yes, he does like it strong, and there’s only one set of cups, white with a gold rim. There were two left the other day, but it’s quite possible they have disappeared. She is a champion breaker.”
“We’ll have tumblers then,” Pixie said briskly. “The nicest tea I ever had was at a seaside inn where we made it ourselves in a bedroom to save the expense. Oh, here they are, and here’s the milk. Now we shan’t be long!” Then suddenly, standing before the cupboard door, and tilting her head over her shoulder, “When did you hear from Stanor?” she asked, in a still, altered voice which struck like a blow.
Stephen Glynn gave no outward sign of surprise, yet that sudden question had sent racing half a dozen pulses, as voicing the words in his own mind. “When did you hear from Stanor? What do you hear from Stanor?” The first sight of the girl’s face had added intensity to the curiosity of years—a curiosity which within the last months had changed into anxiety. He hesitated before answering the simple question.
“He does not write often. We had a good deal of correspondence when he decided to stay in New York the extra six months. He seems to have acclimatised wonderfully, and to be absorbed in his work, unusually absorbed for his age.”
“But that is what you wanted. You must be pleased about that,” Pixie said quietly. She was arranging the cups and saucers on the tray, but she looked at him as she spoke, a straight, sweet look, which yet held so much sadness that it cut like a knife.
“Miss O’Shaughnessy,” he cried impetuously, “can you forgive me? I took too much upon myself. I did it for the best, but—two years is too long. One settles down. It was a blow to me when he stayed on, for my own sake, and—”
Pixie nodded gravely.
“Yes. We were both sorry. We wanted of course to see him, but you should not blame him for loving his work. You blamed him before because he was changeable; now he has done so well, you must be proud.” She smiled at him with determined cheerfulness. “I am proud. And it is not as if it were making him ill. He finds time to play. Honor Ward often writes and she tells me—”