She opened her campaign by a flank movement upon Alicia and
me, in her capacity of secretary and treasurer of the missionary
society.
Miss Hopkins sailed into Hynds House on a perfect afternoon, to
discuss with us a proposed rummage-sale which was to benefit the
heathen. She wasn't really worrying about the heathen: he had all
the rest of his benighted life to get himself saved in, hadn't he?
All the while she sat there and talked about him, she was really
loaded to the muzzle with pertinent remarks to affluent authors.
She had come with the hope of chancing upon the great man himself;
and, failing that, she meant to pump Alicia and me of enough
material to, say, enable her to use a part of her stock of pet
adjectives in the paper she would prepare for the next meeting of
the literary society. She had a pretty stock of adjectives--plump,
purple words like _lyric_, and _liquid_, and _plastic_, and
_subtile_, and _poignancy_, with every now and then a _chiaoscuro_
thrown in for good measure; and a whole melting-pot full of "rare
emotional experiences," "art that was almost intuitive in its
passion, so subtly did it"--oh, do all sorts of things!--and
"handling the plastic outlines of the theme with rare emotional
skill and mastery of technique," "purest lyricism lifted to heights
of poignancy,"--all that sort of stuff, you know.
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