"It is, and they have to. It's expected of them, and they can't escape, but you need to be soft-hearted and live in a poor neighbourhood to understand the horror of the bazaar habit. I'll tell you a story to the point." Pixie's eyes danced, she preened herself for prospective enjoyment. "There was once a rich old lady, and she sent a pink satin cushion as a contribution to my sister Bridgie's stall at a military bazaar three years ago. 'Twas a violent pink, with sprays of dog roses and a frill of yellow lace, and not a soul would look at it if they had been paid for the trouble. 'Twas tossed about the stall for two whole days, and on the third, just at the closing, the Colonel's wife came in with five pounds in her pocket which had arrived by post for the cause. She wandered about like a lost sheep from one stall to another, looking for anything that would be of any use to anybody in the world, and it was an ageing process to get rid of four pounds five. Then she stuck. In the whole room there was not one thing she'd have been paid to buy. "And then 'twas Bridgie's chance, and she beguiled her with the cushion for fifteen shillings, saying the down itself was worth it. So she bought it to make weight, and sent it to the Major's wife, with her dear love, for Christmas. The Major's wife wore it on the sofa for a whole afternoon when the Colonel's wife came to tea, and then packed it away in the spare room wardrobe till a young curate brought back a bride, and then she shook it up and ironed the lace and sent it, with all best wishes, for a wedding present. The curate's wife wore it for one afternoon, just in the same way, and then _she_ packed it away, and when Christmas came round she said to her husband that the Colonel's wife had been so kind and helpful, and wouldn't it be nice to make a slight return if it were within their means, and what about the cushion? So on the very next Christmas the Colonel's wife got a nice fat parcel, and when it was opened, there, before her eyes--" "Ha, ha ha!" "Ho, ho, ho!" The two young men anticipated the point with roars of laughter, and Pixie whisked round to the other side of the stall to cock her head at a pyramid of green pottery, and move the principal pieces an inch to the right, a thought to the left, with intent to improve the _coup d'oeil_. To the masculine eye it did not seem possible that such infinitesimal touches could have the slightest effect, but then bazaars are intended primarily for the entrapment of women, and Pixie knew very well that with them first impressions were all important. Every shopkeeper realises as much, which is the reason why he labels his goods just a farthing beneath the ultimate shilling. The feminine conscience might possibly shy at paying a whole three shillings for a bauble which could be done without, but, let the eye catch sight of an impressive _Two_, and the small eleven three-farthings is swallowed at a gulp!