Perhaps Hildegarde's fingers trembled a little as she untied the narrow blue ribbon that bound up her hopes; perhaps she was purposely slow, collecting her thoughts and words. The stout lady fumed and fidgeted. "You should never allow things to be tied in a hard knot! It should be one of the first rules in a place like this, that boxes should be fastened with india-rubber bands. Surely you know the usefulness of india-rubber bands? I hope those Nuns are fresh. If you did not see them come in, or speak to the person who brought them, how can you be sure of their being fresh? Stale cakes are out of the question, you know; nobody could think of enduring stale cakes; and Nuns, in particular, must be eaten the same day they—"
"These are not Nuns, madam," said Hildegarde, as she opened the box. "Perhaps you would like to see—"
"Not Nuns! Then why did you tell me they were Nuns? What are they, I should like to know? H'm! ha! very pretty! What do you call these?"
"Novices!" said Hildegarde, with a flash of inspiration.
"Aha! Novices, eh? Yes, yes! a good name, if they are—are they something new? I have never seen them here before."
"Entirely new!" Hildegarde assured her. "This is the first box that has ever been brought in."
"Eh? the first? Then how do you know they are good? How can you conscientiously recommend them? I always expect conscientious treatment here, you know."
"Will you try one?"
Hildegarde handed her the box; and she was soon crunching and nodding and smiling, all at the same moment.
"De-licious! I assure you, delicious! something entirely new—Novices! Why, they are exactly what I want for my party to-night. Much better than Nuns,—Nuns have really become quite tiresome. What is the price of the Novices?"