Happie looked up from the fudge she was weighing and saw Mrs. Jones-Dexter unexpectedly returning down the steps.
"She's a man of her word, whatever else she is," thought Happie, tying the gold and blue cord on which she prided herself, around the box of fudge. "I'd better wait on her; she would crush Margery."
She hastened to the table which the great little lady had appropriated.
"Formosa Oolong," she said severely. "I hope that you are sure there's no green tea in it!"
"Only green little tea-maidens," smiled Happie, and her customer said: "Humph!"
The tea proved to be too strong, the crackers too sweet, both of which errors Happie corrected philosophically.
"No lemon!" ejaculated the amiable Mrs. Jones-Dexter. "No sane person takes lemon in his tea. It is a Russian fad. I never read Russian novels. You don't expect to succeed here, do you?"
"We hope to," said Happie.
"You won't. However, your tea is passable. I shall come again. I want a book. Come and get me one. Your sister is prettier than you, but I like you better. What is that girl doing at the piano? If you are going to have music with your tea I shall never come again. How can one be expected to digest—even a liquid—to syncopated rag-time, or possibly a fugue? Ruinous to digestion, profanation to music, execrable bad taste, this music in all eating places."