“I believe I shall,” and drawing closer to the phaeton the Professor peered more closely at its occupant as he said:
“I say, little girl, I think I’ll take all you have there. They are exceedingly palatable. And I would really like to know how it happens that a child apparently so respectable as yourself should be peddling sweets. You—why you might really be a gentleman’s daughter,” he drawled.
Now it had never for a moment occurred to Jean that appearances might prove misleading to those whose powers of observation were not of the keenest, or that a much disheveled child driving about the country in an antiquated phaeton, to which was harnessed a patriarchal horse, might seem to belong to a rather lower order in the social scale than her mother had a right to claim. So the near-sighted Professor’s remark held anything but a pleasing suggestion. For a moment she hardly grasped its full significance, then drawing up her head like an insulted queen, she regarded the luckless man with blazing eyes as she answered:
“I am a Carruth, thank you, and the Carruths do as they please. You need not buy these candies if you don’t wish to. I can get plenty of customers among my friends—the boys.”
When did unconscious flattery prove sweeter? Those same “friends—the boys” would have then and there died for the small itinerant whose wares had so touched their palates, and who was openly choosing their patronage over and above that of an individual who had now and again caused more than one of them to pass an exceedingly bad quarter of an hour. A suppressed giggle sounded not far off, but the Professor’s face retained its perfect solemnity as he bent his head toward Jean to get a closer view.
“Hum; ah; yes. I dare say you are quite right. I was probably over hasty in drawing conclusions,” was the calm response.
“Mammy says a gentleman can always rec’o’nize a lady,” flashed Jean, unconsciously falling into Mammy’s vernacular.
“And who is Mammy, may I inquire?” asked the imperturbable voice, its owner absently eating lumps of fudge and pralines at a rate calculated to speedily reduce the supply he had on hand, the lads meanwhile regarding the vanishing “lumps of delight” with longing eyes.
“Why she’s Mammy,” replied Jean with considerable emphasis.
“Mammy what?” was the very unprofessional question which followed.