nquired Pixie at the end of a
pregnant silence, and at that very obvious hint Bridgie retired
perforce, repeating gallantly to herself, "Looks don't matter! Looks
don't matter! They don't matter a bit!" and believing just as much of
what she said as would any other young woman of her age.

Another ten minutes and the sound of the electric bell rang sharply
round the flat. The door opened and shut, and Moffatt, entering the
sitting-room in advance, announced loudly--

"Mr Vaughan!"

A tall, fair man entered with a rapid step. Pixie looked at him, and
felt a consciousness of unutterable strangeness. This was not the man
from whom she had parted on the deck of that ocean-bound steamer! This
man was older, broader; the once lazy, laughter-loving eyes were keen
and shrewd. His shoulders also were padded into the exaggerated square,
characteristic of American tailors.

"Well--Pixie!"

Even the voice was strange. It had absorbed the American accent, the
American clip and drawl. Pixie had the consciousness of struggling with
stiffened features which refused to smile.

"Well--Stanor!"

He took her hand and held it in his, the while he stared down at her
upturned face. His brows contracted, as though what he saw was more
painful than pleasant. "I guess you've been having a bad time," he
said. "I was sorry to hear your brother's been sick."

"He is better now," Pixie said, and gently withdrew her hand.

_Two and a half years' waiting, and this was the meeting_! She drew
herself up, with the little air of dignity which she knew so well how to
assume, and waved him to a seat.

"Won't you sit down? I will give you some tea. It is all ready, and
the kettle is boiling. When did you arrive in town?"

"Two hours ago. I went straight to my hotel to write some letters, and
then came along here. ... This is your brother's apartment? Nice
little place! It's good news that he is better! Hard luck on him to be
bowled over like that!"

The accent, the intonation carried Pixie's thoughts irresistibly towards
another speaker, whose memory war associated with her own first meeting
with Stanor. On the spur of the moment she mentioned her name.

"Where is Honor Ward? Is she in London, too?"

Stanor started; over his features passed a quiver as of anxiety or
dread. He glanced across the fireplace, and the new keenness in his
eyes became still more marked.

"Er--no! She stopped half way. Later on ... perhap