“Miss Ward seems an adept at play,” returned Stephen dryly.
In truth, the lavishness of the entertainments which Honor had planned during the past two years had called the attention of even the English papers. Pixie had read aloud descriptions thereof in the journals in the northern town where Captain Victor was still stationed, and Bridgie listening thereto had exclaimed in horror: “Special liveries for all the men-servants just for that one evening! How wicked! All that money for a few hours, when poor children are starving, and myself wanting a velvet coat...”
At first Pixie had divined that Honor was trying to drown her sorrow in gaiety, and was even guilty of a girlish desire to “show off” before her former lover, but as the months grew into years it was impossible to read her letters and not realise that her enjoyment was real, not feigned, and that she had outgrown regret. Yes, Honor was happy; and to judge from her accounts Stanor was happy too, able even in his busiest days to spare time to join the revels, and, indeed, to help in their organisation.
“Miss Ward is an adept at play. I don’t approve of these gorgeous entertainments,” said Stephen, and Pixie’s eyes lightened with a mischievous flash.
“Seems to me you are never satisfied! Now for myself nothing could be gorgeous enough!” She held out a brown teapot with a broken spout. “The water’s boiling. Pour it in please, and don’t splash! I’ll carry it right in, for Pat is impatient. We mustn’t keep him waiting.” She waited until the pot was safely on the tray, and then added a warning: “Please don’t talk about—things—before Pat. He’d worry, but I’d like your advice. Another time, perhaps, when we are alone.” Her eyes met his, gravely beseeching, and he looked searchingly back.
Yes, she had suffered. It was no longer the face of a light-hearted child. Loyal as ever, Pixie would not listen to a word against her friend, but what secret was she hiding in her heart?