“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 the devotion of her young sister, so placidly, assured that the quiet family life furnished the girl with, everything necessary for her happiness, that the suggestion of an outside interest came as a shock. “Not!” she repeated blankly. “Then—then—who?”
“My lovers!” replied Pixie calmly.
And looking back through the years, it always seemed to Bridgie Victor that with the utterance of those words the life of Pixie O’Shaughnessy entered upon a new and absorbing phase.