know that there’s any money mixed up with my looks, such as they are. That’s fair. Now, I want you to lend me one of your caps and an apron, Annette.”
“Oh, marshmallows!” cried Annette. “I see. Ain’t it lovely? It’s just like ‘Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker’s Wrongs.’ I’ll bet he’ll turn out to be a count.”
There was a long hallway (or “passageway,” as they call it in the land of the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the house. The grocer’s young man went through this to deliver his goods. One morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid’s cap and apron. But as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and Trophy tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the most expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of the maids.
But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling “Fisher’s Hornpipe” so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the world should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for shame.
The grocer’s young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on his collar button behind.
“That’s out o’ sight, Kid,” said he.
“My name is Celia, if you please,” said the whistler, dazzling him with a three-inch smile.
