“But we must hurry,” she said. “We really must Crawford, you buy the things. I should think of that fruit man and laugh all the time, I know I should.”
She remained by the door and the young gentleman strolled to the counter. He cast an amused glance about the store; its display of stock was, thanks to Mary-'Gusta's recent efforts at tidiness, not quite the conglomerate mass it had been when the partners were solely responsible, but the variety was still strikingly obvious.
“Humph!” observed Crawford; “I've forgotten what we came to buy, but I'm sure it is here, whatever it is. Some emporium, this! Introduce me to the proprietor, will you, Edna?”
Edna giggled.
“She isn't the proprietor,” she said. “She is just the clerk, that's all. Her name is—I've forgotten your name, dear. What is it?”
“Mary Lathrop,” replied Mary-'Gusta, shortly. She objected to being addressed as “dear” and she strongly objected to the patronizing tone in which it was uttered. Edna Keith was older than she, but not old enough to patronize.
“Oh, yes, so it is,” said the young lady. “But that isn't what everyone calls you. They call you something else—something funny—Oh, I know! Mary-'Gusta, that's it. I knew it was funny. Mary-'Gusta, this is Mr. Smith. He wants to buy some things. And he's in a GREAT hurry.”
“Charmed, Mary-'Gusta,” said Mr. Smith. Mary-'Gusta did not appear charmed. She asked him what he wanted.
“Search ME,” said the young gentleman, cheerfully. “There was a list, wasn't there, Edna? You have it, I think.”
Edna produced the list, scrawled in pencil on the back of an envelope. Crawford looked it over.