“That’s good! She has only had notes from Jack and one letter from us, which, if I remember right, had nothing in it.”
“Thanks! I wrote it,” sniffed Bell.
“Well, I meant it had no news—no account of things, you know.”
“No, I wouldn’t descend to writing news, and I leave accounts to the butcher.”
“Stop quarrelling, girls! This is my plan: I will begin in my usual rockety style, sometimes maliciously called the Pollyoliver method; Margery will take up the thread sedately; Bell will plunge in with a burst of enthusiasm and seventeen adjectives, followed by a verse of poor poetry; Geoff will do the sportive or instructive, just as he happens to feel; and Phil will wind up the letter by some practical details which will serve as a key to all the rest. Won’t it be a box of literary bonbons for her to read in bed, poor darling! Let me see! I represent the cayenne lozenges, sharp but impressive; Margery will do for jujube paste, which I adore,—mild, pleasant, yielding, delicious.”
“Sticky and insipid!” murmured Madge, plaintively.
“Not at all, my dear. Bell stands for the peppermints; Jack for chocolates, ‘the ladies’ delight’; Geoffrey for a wine-drop, altogether good, but sweetest in its heart; Phil—let me see! Phil is like—what is he like?”
“No more like candy than a cold boiled potato,” said his sister.
“He is candid,” suggested Bell. “Let us call him rock-candy, pure, healthful, and far from soft.”
“Or marshmallow,” said Margery, “good, but tough.”