More about Pixie
Vaizey Mrs. George de Horne
English
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Below is a summary of More about Pixie
More About Pixie, by Mrs G. de Horne Vaizey
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This is another excellent book by Mrs de Horne Vaizey,
dating from the end of the nineteenth century. While of
course it is dated in its references to the world around
its actors, yet nevertheless their emotions are
well-described, and no doubt are timeless.
In some ways the world around the people in the book is
recognisable today, in a way which a book written thirty or
forty years before would not have been. They have
electricity, telephones, trains, buses, and many other
things that we still use regularly today. Of course one
major difference is that few people today have servants,
while middle-class and upper-class families of the eighteen
nineties would certainly have had them. It was a passing
joke in the book that it was surprising that the butler, on
discovering a young couple kissing, did not say, "Allow me,
madam."
Today we travel by aeroplane, while in those days, and
indeed for much of my own life, we travelled by ship and
train. It was normal when travelling back to England from
India to disembark at Marseilles, and come on to the
Channel Ports by train, perhaps even spending a week or two
in Italy, en route. I have done it myself.
So it is not so very dated after all. But I do think there
is a real value in reading the book. Oddly enough, I think
that a boy would benefit from reading any of the
author's books, more than a girl would, because it would
give him an insight into the girlish mind which he could
not so easily otherwise obtain. N.H.
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MORE ABOUT PIXIE
BY MRS. GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY
CHAPTER ONE.
A NEW NEIGHBOUR.
The night nurse was dusting the room preparatory to going off duty for
the day, and Sylvia was lying on her water-bed watching her movements
with gloomy, disapproving eyes. For four long weeks--ever since the
crisis had passed and she had come back to consciousness of her
surroundings--she had watched the same proceeding morning after morning,
until its details had become almost unbearably wearisome to her weak
nerves.
First of all came Mary to sweep the floor--she went down on her knees,
and swept up the dust with a small hand-brush, and however carefully she
might begin, it was quite, quite certain that she would end by knocking
up against the legs of the bed, and giving a jar and shock to the
quivering inmate. Then she would depart, and nurse would take the
ornaments off the mantelpiece, flick the duster over them, and put them
back in the wrong places.
It did not seem of the least importance to her whether the blue vase
stood in the centre or at the side, but Sylvia had a dozen reasons for
wishing to have it in exactly one position and no other. She liked to
see its graceful shape and rich colouring reflected in the mirror which
hung immediately beneath the gas-bracket; if it were moved to the left
it spoiled her view of a tiny water-colour painting which was one of her
greatest treasures, while if it stood on the right it ousted the
greatest treasure of all--the silver-framed portrait of the dear,
darling, most beloved of fathers, who was afar off at the other side of
the world, tea-planting in Ceylon.
Sylvia was too weak to protest, but she burrowed down among the clothes,
and moped to herself in good old typhoid fashion. "Wish she would leave
it alone! Wish people wouldn't bother about the room. Don't care if it
is dusty! Wish I could be left in peace. Don't believe I shall ever be
better. Don't believe my temperature ever _will_ go down. Don't care
if it doesn't! Wish father were home to come and talk, and cheer me up.
Boo-hoo-hoo!"
The tears trickled down and splashed saltly against her lips, but she
kept her sobs under control, for crying was a luxury which was forbidden
by the authorities, and could only be indulged in by stealth.
The night nurse thought that the patient had fallen asleep, but when she
went off duty, and her successor arrived, she cast a suspicious glance
at the humped-up bedclothes, and turned them down with a gentle but
determined hand.
"Crying again?" she cried. "Oh, come now, I can't allow that! What are
you crying about on such a lovely, bright morning, when you have had
such a good night's rest?"
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