mind instantly recalled Mr. Tackett and his air with the buttonless foils.
Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the house. The grocer’s wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days Celia watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time to admire in the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing around the choicest gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories. Then she consulted Annette.
To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a paragraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic novels which she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by one of the biggest caliphs in the business). She was Celia’s sidekicker and chum, though Aunt Henrietta didn’t know it, you may hazard a bean or two.
“Oh, canary-bird seed!” exclaimed Annette. “Ain’t it a corkin’ situation? You a heiress, and fallin’ in love with him on sight! He’s a sweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain’t suspectible like the common run of grocer’s assistants. He never pays no attention to me.”
“He will to me,” said Celia.
“Riches—” began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine sting.
“Oh, you’re not so beautiful,” said Celia, with her wide, disarming smile. “Neither am I; but he sha’n’t
