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