She had come with the hope of chancing upon the great man himself; and, failing that, she meant to pump Alicia and me of enough material to, say, enable her to use a part of her stock of pet adjectives in the paper she would prepare for the next meeting of the literary society.  She had a pretty stock of adjectives—­plump, purple words like lyric, and liquid, and plastic, and subtile, and poignancy, with every now and then a chiaoscuro thrown in for good measure; and a whole melting-pot full of “rare emotional experiences,” “art that was almost intuitive in its passion, so subtly did it”—­oh, do all sorts of things!—­and “handling the plastic outlines of the theme with rare emotional skill and mastery of technique,” “purest lyricism lifted to heights of poignancy,”—­all that sort of stuff, you know.  Next time a writer, or, better still, a fiddler or a pianist comes to your town, look in your home paper the morning after, and you’ll see it.

As it happened, The Author was not at home.  His secretary had arrived a day or two before, and after unloading a systemful of copy upon that faithful beast of burden, The Author had given himself a half-holiday with old Riedriech, who knew quite enough about old furniture to win his interest and affection.

Miss Hopkins, then, had Alicia and me to herself.  Sedately we discussed rummage-sales, and the effect of cotton shirts upon the adolescent cannibal; and all the while Miss Hopkins was stealthily watching doors and windows and hoping that high heaven would send The Author to her hands.  We hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.  It pleased us to sit there and watch her trying to make us do so.

The iron knocker on the front door sounded.  And ushered in by Queenasheeba, there stood Nicholas Jelnik with great gray Boris beside him, and beauty and glamour and romance upon him like a light.  Miss Hopkins had seen him on the streets, but hadn’t met him personally.  I don’t think she relished the fact that she had to come to Hynds House to do so.  Nor could she save herself from the crudity of staring with all her eyes at this handsome offshoot of the Hyndses, with what in a less polite person might well have been called avid curiosity.

“Miss Leetchy,” (he had gaily borrowed Fernolia’s pronunciation of Alicia’s name), “I have brought you the butter-scotch your soul hankers after.  I fear you can never hope to grow up, Miss Leetchy, while you cherish a jejune passion for butter-scotch.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  It might have been fudge!” Alicia replied airily.  “But thank you, Mr. Jelnik:  it was very nice of you to remember.”

“Yes.  I have such an excellent memory,” said he, blandly.  “Miss Smith, this preserved ginger is laid at your shrine.  If you offer me a piece or two, I shall accept with thanks:  I like preserved ginger, myself.—­Boris, you’ll prefer butter-scotch.  You may ask Miss Gaines to give you a piece.”