The Love Affairs of Pixie | Page 2

forehead, but I expect he'd advise a blend that wouldn't look
too epatant with my other features.--It takes a fortnight, and it doesn't
hurt. Your nose 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