The Love Affairs of Pixie | Page 2

is gelatine, not bone; and it costs fifty pounds."
"Wicked waste!" cried Mrs Victor, with all the fervour of a matron whose own nose is beyond reproach. "Fifty pounds on a nose! I never heard of such foolish extravagance."
"Esmeralda paid eighty for a sealskin coat. A nose would last for life, while if a single moth got inside the brown paper--whew!" Pixie waved her hands with the Frenchiness of gesture which was the outcome of an education abroad, and which made an amusing contrast with an Irish accent, unusually pronounced. "I'd think nothing of running over to Paris for a fortnight's jaunt, and having the nose thrown in. Fancy me walking in on you all, before you'd well realised I was away, smart and smiling with a profile like Clytie, or a sweet little acquiline, or a neat and wavey one, like your own. You wouldn't know me!"
"I shouldn't!" said Bridgie eloquently.
"Now let's pretend!" Pixie hitched her chair nearer to the fire, and placed her little feet on the fender with an air of intense enjoyment. In truth, tea-time, and the opportunity which it gave of undisturbed parleys with Bridgie, ranked as one of the great occasions of life. Every day there seemed something fresh and exciting to discuss, and the game of "pretend" made unfailing appeal to the happy Irish natures, but it was not often that such an original and thrilling topic came under discussion. A repaired nose! Pixie warmed to the theme with the zest of a skilled raconteur. ... "You'd be sitting here, and I'd walk in in my hat and veil--a new-fashioned scriggley veil, as a sort of screen. We'd kiss. If it was a long kiss, you'd feel the point, being accustomed to a button, and that would give it away, but I'd make it short so you'd notice nothing, and I'd sit down with my back to the light, and we'd talk. `Take off your hat,' you'd say. `In a moment,' I'd answer. `Not yet, me dear, my hair's untidy.' `You look like a visitor,' you'd say, `with your veil drawn down.' `It's a French one,' I'd say. `It becomes me, doesn't it? Three francs fifty,' and you'd frown, and stare, and say, `Does it? I don't know! You look-- different, Pixie. You don't look--yourself!'"
The real Pixie gurgled with enjoyment, and Bridgie Victor gurgled in response.
"Then I'd protest, and ask what was the matter, and say if there was anything, it must be the veil, and if there was a change wasn't it honestly for the better, and I'd push up my veil and smile at you; smile languidly across the room. I can see your face, poor darling! All scared and starey, while I turned round s-lowly, s-lowly, until I was sideways towards you, with me elegant Grecian nose..."
Bridgie shuddered.
"I'd not live through it! It would break my heart. With a Grecian nose you might be Patricia, but you couldn't possibly be Pixie. It's too horrible to think of!"
But Pixie had in her nature a reserve of obstinacy, and in absolutely good-natured fashion could "hang on" to a point through any amount of discouragement.
"Now, since you mention it, that's another argument in my favour," she said quickly. "It's hard on a girl of twenty to be bereft of her legal name because of incompatibility with her features. Now, with a Grecian nose--"
Bridgie sat up suddenly, and cleared her throat. The time had come to remember her own position as married sister and guardian, and put a stop to frivolous imaginings.
"May I ask," she demanded clearly, "exactly in what manner you would propose to raise the fifty pounds? Your nose is your own to do what you like with--or will be at the end of another year--but--"
"The fifty pounds isn't! I know it," said Pixie. She did not sigh, as would have seemed appropriate at such a moment, but exhibited rather a cheerful and gratified air, as though her own poverty were an amusing peculiarity which added to the list of her attractions.
"Of course, my dear, nobody ever dreamt for a moment it could be done, but it's always interesting to pretend. Don't we amuse ourselves for hours pretending to be millionaires, when you're all of a flutter about eighteen-pence extra in the laundry bill? I wonder at you, Bridgie, pretending to be practical."
"I'm sorry," said Bridgie humbly. A pang of conscience pierced her heart, for had it not been her own extravagance which had swelled the laundry bill by that terrible eighteen-pence? Penitence engendered a more tender spirit, and she said gently--
"We love your looks, Pixie. To us you seem lovely and beautiful."
"Bless your blind eyes! I know I do. But," added Pixie astonishingly, "I wasn't thinking of you!"
"Not!" A moment followed of sheer, gaping surprise, for Bridgie Victor was so accustomed to