"Is it possible you don't like him?" demanded The Author, amazedly.
"But, my dear woman! Coogler's--why, Coogler's ginger-pop to a
thirsty world!"
"I--I don't drink ginger-pop!" confessed the be-deviled Center of
Culture, foggily.
"Alas! for the South, her books have grown fewer,
She never was much given to literature,"
quoted The Author, pensively.
She was speechless. The shameless Author, fixing upon her a last
long, lingering look of sorrowful reproach, said with emotion:
"From early youth to the frost of age
Man's days have been a mixture
Of all that constitutes in life
A dark and gloomy picture."
And he stalked off, leaving Miss Martha Hopkins in a state of mind.
"Friend Author," Alicia murmured, as he paused beside her, "I wish
you were my own dear little boy for just five merry minutes. I'd
show you," she declared, divided between Irish mirth and human pity
for Miss Martha, "I'd show you what a hair-brush could accomplish!"
"Too late!" regretted The Author, shaking his head. "But," he
suggested, brightening, "couldn't you wish to be my own dear little
girl, instead?"
"This is so sudden!" murmured Alicia, coyly.
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