“We’ll go in here,” said Madeline, opening the door of a dusky little second-hand store with an impatient jerk, “and if they haven’t what we want we’ll stop. Yes, no matter if they tell us positively that a shop round the corner is packed tight with Staffordshire figures, we won’t go to it. Instead we’ll go and get a cool and luscious luncheon,--though where we can find one in this dingy neighborhood, I’m sure I don’t know.”