Nor could she save herself from the crudity
of staring with all her eyes at this handsome offshoot of the
Hyndses, with what in a less polite person might well have been
called avid curiosity.
"Miss Leetchy," (he had gaily borrowed Fernolia's pronunciation of
Alicia's name), "I have brought you the butter-scotch your soul
hankers after. I fear you can never hope to grow up, Miss Leetchy,
while you cherish a jejune passion for butter-scotch."
"Oh, I don't know. It might have been fudge!" Alicia replied airily.
"But thank you, Mr. Jelnik: it was very nice of you to remember."
"Yes. I have such an excellent memory," said he, blandly. "Miss
Smith, this preserved ginger is laid at your shrine. If you offer me
a piece or two, I shall accept with thanks: I like preserved ginger,
myself.--Boris, you'll prefer butter-scotch. You may ask Miss Gaines
to give you a piece."
Miss Hopkins, it appeared, despised butter-scotch, and abhorred
preserved ginger.
"I saw The Author hiking across lots a while since. Nice,
open-hearted, neighborly man, The Author.--Oh, by the way, Miss
Smith: is it, or is it not written in the Book of Darwin that the
gadfly is one of the distinct evolutionary links in the descent of
man?"
"Good heavens, certainly not!" cried Miss Hopkins.
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