White Magic
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I SPENT one evening last summer with my friend Mauger, pharmacienin the little town of Jacques-le-Port. He pro- nounces his name Major, by-the-bye, it being a quaint custom of the Islands to write proper names one way and speak them another, thus serving to bolster up that old, old story of the German savant’s account of the difficulties of the English language “where you spell a man’s name Verulam,” says he reproachfully, “and pronounce it Bacon.”
Mauger and I sat in the pleasant wood-panelled parlour behind the shop, from whence all sorts of aromatic odours found their way in through the closed door to mingle with the fragrance of figs, Ceylon tea, and hot gôches-à-beurre constituting the excellent meal spread before us. The large old-fashioned windows were wide o
