“But it says so plainly in those very words. I’ll show it to you if you like. It’s printed!” cried Pixie in a tone of shocked reproof which silenced the protests on Sylvia’s lips. If her suspicions were correct, time would teach the lesson that even printed advertisements were not always accurately truthful, but she had not the heart to dilate on the perfidiousness of mankind in the presence of such innocent trustfulness. She murmured apologetic phrases, and Pixie beamed once more and continued her story.
“There’s another gentleman wants you to go round and sell books. I’ve written to him, but I’d rather do things at home. Did you ever hear of anyone making a fortune by addressing envelopes? They want someone to do that too, but I write so slowly meself, and it’s only a shilling a thousand. A literery lady is wanted to correct proofs. That would be nice, because they might be stories. How do you spell ‘literery’, Sylvia?”
“L-i-t-e-r-a-r-y!”
“Not ‘e-r-y?’ You are quite sure?”
“Absolutely sure!”
“I put ‘literery’!” said Pixie, with a sigh. Perhaps it will prejudice him against me! Spelling was never my strong point, but that was worse than ignorance—with the paper lying beside me for reference! The best of all is a shop that wants you to colour photographs. I love painting pictures, and the scrap-books I’ve done for hospitals would fill a museum. Of course, these would have to be done carefully, but I’ve seen Thérèse sketching at Versailles, and artists painting in the Louvre, and I’m quick at imitating. They wanted three shillings to sell you the paints and brushes, and it will be cheap if it brings in pounds a week. “Twas a good thing Esmeralda gave me a sovereign before she left, and I could get the stamps without anyone being the wiser. I thought, you see, it would be so nice to keep it a secret until I could go to Bridgie with my earnings in my hand. You will promise truly and faithfully not to tell?”
“If you will promise not to send any more money without asking my advice. I think you ought to do that, Pixie!”
“I shan’t need to, me dear. I’ll earn enough as it is. Will I get the replies to-morrow, do you think? The letters ought to be delivered to-night!”
Sylvia felt doubtful whether answers would ever be received, but as events proved, she was wrong, and Pixie was right, for her inquiries were answered by return of post, and on the first opportunity handed over for inspection. The philanthropist who provided remunerative work for gentlewomen at their own homes without interfering with present duties, forwarded samples as promised, the which Pixie spread out on the table with an air of depression. They consisted of a two-inch length of a simple stamping-off pattern, a fragment of black net, and a few dozen common jet beads, wrapped in a paper.
“You iron off the pattern on the net, and then you sew round it with the beads, and then ye cut off the scallops, and then it’s jetted lace!” she explained anxiously. “And when it’s jetted lace, ye go out and sell it to the shops.” She sighed deeply, and turned over the patterns with her fingers. “How much a yard is jetted lace, Sylvia?”