Miss Keith, when she recovered from her spasm of merriment, declared her companion “perfectly killing.”

“But we must hurry,” she said.  “We really must Crawford, you buy the things.  I should think of that fruit man and laugh all the time, I know I should.”

She remained by the door and the young gentleman strolled to the counter.  He cast an amused glance about the store; its display of stock was, thanks to Mary-’Gusta’s recent efforts at tidiness, not quite the conglomerate mass it had been when the partners were solely responsible, but the variety was still strikingly obvious.

“Humph!” observed Crawford; “I’ve forgotten what we came to buy, but I’m sure it is here, whatever it is.  Some emporium, this!  Introduce me to the proprietor, will you, Edna?”

Edna giggled.

“She isn’t the proprietor,” she said.  “She is just the clerk, that’s all.  Her name is—­I’ve forgotten your name, dear.  What is it?”

“Mary Lathrop,” replied Mary-’Gusta, shortly.  She objected to being addressed as “dear” and she strongly objected to the patronizing tone in which it was uttered.  Edna Keith was older than she, but not old enough to patronize.

“Oh, yes, so it is,” said the young lady.  “But that isn’t what everyone calls you.  They call you something else—­something funny—­Oh, I know!  Mary-’Gusta, that’s it.  I knew it was funny.  Mary-’Gusta, this is Mr. Smith.  He wants to buy some things.  And he’s in a great hurry.”

“Charmed, Mary-’Gusta,” said Mr. Smith.  Mary-’Gusta did not appear charmed.  She asked him what he wanted.

“Search me,” said the young gentleman, cheerfully.  “There was a list, wasn’t there, Edna?  You have it, I think.”

Edna produced the list, scrawled in pencil on the back of an envelope.  Crawford looked it over.

“Sam’s writing isn’t exactly print,” he observed, “but I can guess at it.  Let’s see—­a pound of butter.  Where’s the butter department of this Bon Marche, Edna?”

Edna, after another convulsion, declared she didn’t know.

“No doubt Miss—­er—­Mary Jane knows,” went on her companion.  “Why, yes, of course she does.  Right there, behind the oilskin jacket.  Remove jacket, open door—­behold, the icebox and the butter.  Neat, compact, and convenient.  One pound only, Elizabeth Eliza.  Thank you.”

“Her name isn’t Elizabeth Eliza,” giggled Miss Keith.  “Isn’t he awful, Mary-’Gusta!  You mustn’t mind him.”

“I don’t,” said Mary-’Gusta, promptly.  “What else do you want?”

Crawford consulted the list.  “The next item,” he said, “appears to be a—­er—­certain kind of ham.  I blush to mention it, but I must.  It is deviled ham.  Have you that kind of ham, Mary-’Gusta?”

Mary-’Gusta took the can of deviled ham from the shelf.  Crawford shook his head.

“To think that one so young should be so familiar with ham of that kind!” he said.  “She didn’t speak its name, though.  Suppose I had asked you what kind of ham you had, Miss—­er—­’Gusta how would you have got around it?”