Stephen gave her a long, strange look.

"I think I--" he began, and stopped short suddenly.

"What?" queried Pixie, and there was a long pause.

"I--don't know!" he answered dreamily then, and without a word of farewell turned away and descended the steps.

But he did know. In the moment in which he had stood facing her while she pled her brother's cause, the secret of his own heart was revealed.

Never under any circ.u.mstances could he be angry with Pixie O'Shaughnessy. He loved her; she was for him the one woman in the world; with all the stored-up love of his empty life he loved her, and longed for her for his own. That was the reason of his happiness during the past days, of the extraordinary new zest and interest in life which had filled his mind; of his content in Pixie's contentment, his anxiety for her anxiety, his furious resentment when she was abused. And he loved her. He loved her when she lapsed into her Irish brogue, and said "Me dear"; he loved her when she a.s.sumed Frenchified airs, struck att.i.tudes, and cried "_Ma foi_!" he loved her when she was sad, when she was glad, when she was youthful and mischievous, when she was serious and old, when she walked beside him in the street in the hat with the curling feather, when she sat on the hearthrug in her rose-hued dress crooning songs in her soft, sweet voice. Always, and always, he loved her; she had crept into his heart like a ray of sunshine lighting up unused rooms; she had melted his coldness, as the south wind melts the frost. He loved Pixie, and Pixie was going to marry Stanor Vaughan...

Stephen Glynn stepped shuddering into the clammy street, and away up on the fifth floor landing Pixie still stood motionless, holding the handle of that open door, repeating to herself dreamily that he would come back, he must come back! He had never said good-bye!

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

COMPLICATIONS.

On the following afternoon Stephen Glynn failed to pay his daily visit to the flat. After the revelation of the night before he had neither the strength nor the courage to encounter Pixie anew. Little use to shut the stable door after the steed had flown, but he must at least have time to think, to face the future, and decide upon his own course.

And then at seven o'clock came the ring of the telephone, and Pixie's voice speaking piteously in his ear--

"Is it you? You yourself? Oh, why didn't you come? I was waiting for you. I wanted you. Pat's ill! He's ill, and he won't let me send for the doctor. Oh, do come round!"

"I'm coming!" Stephen said, and hung up the receiver. Pixie wanted him, that settled the matter. In half an hour's time his car stopped before the entrance to the flat, and the chauffeur was bidden to wait for further orders, while his master mounted the long flights of steps.

Pixie was seated beside the fire, and the glance of her eyes spoke of a warning which he was quick to understand. Pat was not to suspect that his friend had been summoned on his behalf. He turned towards the bed, and said lightly--

"Sorry to be late, old man. How goes it? Tried the walking again?"

"This morning. Yes. But--" Pat shrugged wearily--"not since. Got a head--"

Stephen looked at him critically. Bright eyes, flushed cheeks, shortened breath, all the danger signals to the fore.

"Bit feverish, old man, that's the trouble! Exerting yourself too much perhaps. Good thing I didn't come to tire you further. Get that doctor fellow to give you something to cool you down, and give you a good night's rest, and the little cherub will wake up bright as a b.u.t.ton."

"Shan't!" Pat cried. "No more doctors! Sick of the sight of doctors!

What have doctors done for _me_? Chained here all these weeks, and worse at the end! I can look after myself."

"Taken your temperature by any chance?"

"What's the good? Don't _you_ start worrying, Glynn! I've had enough of it from Pixie. I'm not going to be worried with temperatures."

"Don't behave like a child, O'Shaughnessy. No one wants to worry you with doctors if it can be helped. I don't wonder you are tired of them, but you can't run risks. Take your temperature like a sensible fellow, and if it's under a hundred, I'll leave you in peace. Otherwise I go downstairs this minute and telephone for Braithey. Where's the thermometer, Miss O'Shaughnessy? Now then, in with it!"

Pat scowled, but submitted. The gla.s.s tube was held between set lips, and a silence ensued which Stephen made no effort to break. Pixie waited expectantly for him to join her, but he kept his position by the bed, without so much as turning his head in her direction. And upon entering he had avoided her glance, had dropped her hand after the most perfunctory, clasp, and last night he had gone away without even saying good-night. ... She had offended him: certainly she must have offended him, Pixie told herself, though _how_ she was unable to think. She stared into the fire, feeling tired, and sad, and discouraged.

"Three minutes. Yes, that's enough. Let me see! I'm getting quite clever with these puzzling things. Ye-es!" With a deft jerk of his wrist Stephen shook the thermometer, and returned it to it's case.

"Slightly up! No escape for it, Pat. Braithey must come!"

"I won't see him. I won't see him if he comes! Look here, Glynn, it's my affair! Leave me alone, there's a good fellow! I can look after myself..."

Stephen walked steadily to the door.

"I'll take good care you don't. That's enough, Patrick, don't waste your strength! I'm going downstairs to telephone, and if Braithey's at home my car shall bring him round. It's waiting outside."

He disappeared, and the storm burst over Pixie's head, but she bore it meekly, with a kind of stunned acceptance. _Everything_ seemed going wrong! The sunny harmony of the last ten days had suddenly changed to gloom. Pixie's thoughts made a lightning review of those different days. How perfectly, incredibly happy they had been! Until this moment she had not fully realised their perfection.

"Ah, now, Pat, stop! Don't worry, boy! It's not my head! ... Wait till to-morrow and you'll be better than ever, and think of the trouble it'll give you to apologise. ... It's because we _care_!"

"Wish to goodness you didn't then," cried the impenitent one. However he might wish to apologise to-morrow, he was in no mood to begin to-night, but the pain in his head was so acute that by sheer exhaustion he was forced into silence.

Stephen did not return as had been expected after sending his telephone message. He preferred, it appeared, to go on the car, and personally bring back the doctor, and half an hour later the two men entered the room together. Then ensued the usual tapping and sounding, the enforced reiteration of "Ah-ah!" the feeling of the pulse, the ignominious presentation of the tongue. Pat went through the performance with the air of a martyr at the stake, sank back against the pillow when it was over, and hunched himself beneath the clothes.

"That's right! That's right! Lie still and rest. We'll soon have you all right again. Have a little nap if you can, while I give Miss O'Shaughnessy my instructions in the er--er--"

Doctor Braithey reminded himself in time that there _was_ no second sitting-room, and concluded grandiloquently--"in the hall!"

They went out into the tiny pa.s.sage, and Stephen and Pixie waited for the verdict.

"Well! The right lung is touched. He has taken a chill. Now we must see what we can do to prevent it from going farther."

He cast an inquiring glance at Pixie.

"D'you know anything about poulticing?"

"Yes, everything! I've helped my sister with her children, and I brought the things..."

"That's well! Poultice him then, a fresh one every two hours. Here!

You understand, in this position," he tapped himself in ill.u.s.tration.

"I'll send in medicines, and we'll see how he is to-morrow morning. If he is no better you'll need help. We'll see about that when I call."

A few more words and he was gone, racing down the long stairway, while Stephen lingered behind with an air of uncertainty.

"I--suppose I can be of no use! Pat ought to be quiet, and I'm no hand at poulticing. You are sure you can manage alone?"

Pixie nodded, struggling with a lump in her throat. _Why_ wouldn't he stay? Why did he so obviously not _want_ to stay?

"I can. It will be all right. Moffatt will help me."

"And to-morrow ... to-morrow you must get a nurse!"

"No!" cried Pixie with sudden energy, "I will not. I'll have no stranger. I'll have Bridgie." Her heart swelled at the sound of the beloved name; she felt a helpless longing to cast herself on that faithful breast. "Bridgie must come. There's no room for a nurse in this tiny place. Bridgie could share my room."

"We'll telegraph for her," Glynn said. "I will come round after breakfast, and if Pat is not quite himself, I'll telegraph at once. She could be with you by tea-time."

He was kind and considerate. He was thoughtful for her comfort, ready to help by deed as well as word. Pixie could not explain to herself wherein lay the want, but the reality of it gnawed at her heart, and darkened still further the hours of that long, anxious night.

Despite poultices, despite medicine, there was no doubt even to Pixie's inexperienced eyes that Pat was worse the next morning. His breathing was heavier, he was hotter, more restless. Without waiting for Stephen she sent the little maid to telephone to the doctor, and through the same medium dispatched a summoning wire to Bridgie in her northern home.