Ray looked bewildered, and Patty, whose eyes were shining with righteous indignation, took her by the arm, and marched her to the telephone. Patty herself called up the Rose house, and then, thrusting the receiver into Ray's hand, said, "Give your order, and be quick about it."

"Let the girl out of my room," said Ray, through the transmitter. "It isn't Miss Fairfield in there now, it's one of the Farrington maids. Let her go home."

Patty took the receiver from Ray and hung it up, and then marched her to the dressing-room, and divested her of her long cloak.

"Why, Ray Rose!" cried Elise, "if you haven't got Patty's dress on, yourself! What are you up to?"

"Never mind, Elise," said Patty, "help us change, there isn't much time. Ray made a mistake."

Without a word, Ray took off Patty's voluminous tulle skirts in which she was arrayed, and handed them over to their rightful owner. As fast as she received them, Patty put them on, and in ten minutes, was herself clothed in her rightful property.

Meantime Ray had no costume to wear.

"Where's your Pierrette rig?" asked Patty.

"Over home," said Ray, disconsolately.

"Go and telephone for them to send it over, if you want it," said Patty. "Put on your long cloak, and telephone."

Ray looked at her dubiously for a moment, and then said, "No, I won't. I'll go home and stay home,—that's what I'll do!"

"Go ahead," said Patty, blithely, who didn't feel she really owed the girl any further consideration. "And next time you try to get even with anybody, pick out some one who'll let you stay even!"

"You're a hummer!" said Ray, in unwilling admiration. "How did you do it?"

"I'll tell you some other time," and Patty laughed in spite of herself at the admiration on Ray's countenance. "If you're going to get your costume over here and get into it, you want to hustle."

"Time enough," returned Ray, carelessly. "My stunt is the sixth on the program, so there's lots of time."

This was true, so Patty turned all her attention to reddening her pink cheeks, while the other girls gathered around in desperate curiosity.

"What does it all mean?" asked Ethel Merritt. "Do tell us, Miss Fairfield. Why did Ray wear your dress?"

"Ask her," said Patty, smiling. "It was a whim of hers, I guess. It made me a little bother, but all's well that ends well."

"You are the good-naturedest old goose!" cried Elise, who had an inkling of what was inexplicable to the others.

"Might as well," said Patty, serenely. "She's a hummer, Ray Rose is. She sure is a hummer!"

And then Patty pronounced herself finished and turned from the mirror for inspection.

"Lovely!" approved Elise, "if you admire strongly-marked features!"

Patty's cheeks and lips were very red, her eyebrows greatly darkened, and her face thickly coated with powdered chalk.

"It's awful, I know," she agreed, "but in the strong lights of the stage and the footlights too, you have to pile it on like that."

"Of course you do," said Ethel. "Mine looks the same."

Laughingly gaily, the girls went to take their places on the stage. Bob Riggs, the ringmaster, was there and assigned them their places.

Patty's performance was near the beginning of the program. She did a solo dance, first, a lovely fancy dance that she had learned in New York, and then she did the grotesque and humorous dances called for by the occasion. The one that necessitated springing, head first, through hoops covered with light, thin paper, she did very prettily, striking the taut paper with just the right force to snap it into a thousand shreds.

Her act was wildly applauded by the enthusiastic audience, and would have been several times repeated but for the scarcity of hoops.

Later came her grotesque dance with Bruin Boru, the wonderful dancing bear. Jack Fenn was very funny in his bear-skin costume, and he pawed and scraped as he ambled ludicrously about, and kept time to the music with mincing steps or sprawling strides.

This number was the hit of the evening, and Ray Rose had longed to perform it herself. But her plan fell through, and in her pretty Pierrette costume she did a very pleasing song and dance, but her eyes rested longingly on Patty's frilly skirts.

The last number was a chariot race. The chariots were of the low, backless variety, peculiar to circus performances, indeed they had been procured from a real circus.

Patty and Ethel Merritt drove two of these, and Bob Riggs and Jack Fenn the other two.

But there was no such mad race as is sometimes seen at the real circuses. The two men drove faster, but Patty and Ethel were content to fall behind and bring up the rear. In fact, it was in no sense of the word a race, but merely a picturesque drive of the gorgeous chariots by the gay drivers.

As Patty swept round the small arena for the last time, she beckoned to Ray Rose, who sat, a little disconsolately, near the edge of the stage platform.

"Get in!" Patty whispered, as she slowed down, and, obeying without question, Ray jumped from the stage, right into the chariot, which was large enough to hold both girls.

"Grab the reins with me!" Patty cried, and Ray did, and the final triumphant circuit was made with two laughing drivers holding the ribbons, to the deafening applause of the hilarious audience.

Bob Riggs, from his own chariot, pronounced the entertainment over, and then the performers and audience mingled in a gay crowd, dancing and feasting till the small hours.

"I'm sorry," said Ray, penitently, to Patty, as soon as she had a good chance. "I was a wretch, and you're an angel to speak to me at all."

"I am," agreed Patty, calmly. "Not one girl in a dozen would forgive you. It was a horrid thing to do, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself and you are. I know that. But I choose to forget the whole affair, and I only ask you never to treat anybody else so meanly."

"I never will," promised Ray Rose. "I think you have cured me of that childish trick of 'getting even.'"

"Yes, till next time," said Patty, laughing.



CHAPTER VIII

A REAL POEM

"It's simply absurd of you, Patty," said Elise, as they reached home after the circus, "to let Ray Rose off so easily. She cut up an awfully mean trick, and she ought to be made to suffer for it."

"Now, now, Elise, it's my own little kettle of fish, and you must keep out of it. You see, it makes a difference who does a thing. If Ray Rose were an intimate friend of mine, I should resent her performance and make a fuss about it. But she is such a casual acquaintance,—why, probably I shall never see her again after I go away from Lakewood,—and so I consider it better judgment to ignore her silly prank, rather than stir up a fuss about it."

"I don't agree with you, you're all wrong; but tell me the whole story. What did she do?"

"You see, she was determined to do that hoop dance, and the only way she could think of, to get me out of it, was to get me over to her house and lock me up there. It was a slim chance I had of getting out, but I managed it. She called me over by telephone, and then locked me in her bedroom. How did she get my clothes?"

"Sent a maid over here, saying that you were at her house and wanted your costume sent over. I thought you were helping her, in your usual idiotic 'helping hand' way, and I sent the dress and all the belongings."

"Well, of course, I knew nothing about all that. So, I suppose the little minx dressed herself and put on the long cloak and walked off. She is boss in her own home, I know that, and, as I learned later, her father and mother were out to dinner, so she ordered the servants to pay no attention to any call or disturbance I might make. I sized it up, and I felt pretty sure no screaming or yelling or battering at the door would do any good, so I pondered on a move of strategy. But I couldn't think of anything for a long time, and had just about made up my mind to spend the evening there, when I made one desperate attempt and it succeeded. I wrote a note to Sarah to come over there and say she had to give me a certain medicine at that hour, or I would be ill. And I told her to wear a thick veil and a long cloak. She did all this, and I just slipped into her cloak and hat and veil and came out the door in her place, leaving her behind. They thought it was Sarah who came out, of course."

"Fine! Patty, you're a genius! How did you get the note to Sarah?"

"Tied it to Ray's hairbrush and threw it at the feet of a young man who was going by. On the outside I wrote, 'Please take this quickly to Sarah Moore at George Farrington's,' and gave the address. I added, 'Hurry, as it is a matter of tremendous importance!' And I'd like to know who that young man was."

"Where's the hairbrush?"

"Sarah brought it back with her, and left it where it belongs. I knew it might be broken or lost, but I could have replaced it, so I took that chance. And nothing else seemed just right to throw."

"But, Patty, it was an awful thing for Ray to do to you."

"Oh, don't fuss, Elise. Consider the circumstances. I had given her permission, in a sort of way, to keep me from that stunt if she could, and she had said, 'If I do, remember you said I might.' So you see, she was within her rights, in a way, and beside, I tell you I don't want to stir up a hornets' nest about it. The incident is beneath notice; and, do you know, I can't help admiring the girl's daring and ingenuity."

"Oh, you'd admire a Grizzly Bear, if he succeeded in eating you up! You're a good-natured goose, Patty."

"Maybe. But I know the difference between a foolish prank and a real offence, that must be resented. You're the goose, Elise, not to see how silly it would be to raise a row against a girl who means nothing to me, and whom I shall never see again after this visit is over."

"All right, Pattikins, have it your own way. Ray Rose is a sort of law unto herself, and she has lots of friends who would take her part."

"It isn't that, exactly. If I wanted to raise the issue, I'm sure my side of the matter would be the side of right and justice. But it isn't worth my time or trouble to take it up. And, then, I did tell her to go ahead and outwit me, if she could, so there's that on her side. Now, Elise, about going home. I must go soon, for I want to be in New York a week before the wedding, and you do, too."

"Yes, I do. Suppose we stay down here for the skating party day after tomorrow, and then go to New York the day after that."

"I think so. Your mother will be going up about then, and the days will fairly fly until the fifteenth. It seems funny to think of Roger being married, doesn't it? He's such a boy."

"I know it. Mona seems older than he, though she isn't."

"A girl always seems older than a man, even of the same age. I want to have 'a shower' for Mona before the wedding."

"Oh, Patty, a shower is so—so——"

"So chestnutty? I know it. But Mona wants it. Of course she didn't say so right out, but I divined it. It isn't that she wants the presents, you know, but Mona has a queer sort of an idea that she must have everything that anybody else has. And Lillian Van Arsdale had a shower, so Mona wants one, and I'm going to give it for her."

"All right. What kind?"

"Dunno yet, but something strikingly novel and original. I shall set my great intellect to work on it at once, and invite the people by notes from here, before I go back to New York."

"All right, my lady, but if you don't get to bed now, you'll be pale and holler-eyed tomorrow, and that will upset your placid vanity."

"Wretch! As if I had a glimmer of a trace of a vestige of that deadly sin!"

The girls were very busy during the last few days of Patty's stay in Lakewood. There were many matters to attend to in connection with the approaching wedding. Also, Patty had become a favourite in the social circle and many parties were made especially for her.

And the day before their departure, Elise gave a little farewell tea, to which were bidden only the people Patty liked best.

The Blaneys were there, and, capturing Patty, Sam took her from the laughing crowd and led her to a secluded alcove of the veranda. It was a pleasant nook, enclosed with glass panes, and filled with ferns and palms.

"Sit thee down," said Blaney, arranging a few cushions in a long low wicker chair.

"I'm glad to," and Patty dropped into the seat. "I do think teas are the limit for tiring people out."

"You oughtn't to waste yourself on teas. It's a crime," and Blaney looked positively indignant.

"What would be the proper caper for my indefatigable energy?"

"You oughtn't to be energetic at all. For you, just to be, is enough."

"Not much it isn't! Why, if I just be'd, and didn't do anything else, I should die of that extreme bored feeling. And, it isn't like you to recommend such an existence, anyway."

"I shouldn't for any one else. But you, oh, my lily-fair girl, you are so beautiful, so peerless——"

"Good gracious, Mr. Blaney, what has come over you?" Patty sat up straight, in dismay, for she had no intention of being talked to in that vein by Sam Blaney.

"The spell of your presence," he replied; "the spell of your beauty,—your charm, your——"

"Please don't," said Patty, "please don't talk to me like that! I don't like it."

"No? Then of course I'll stop. But the spell remains. The witchery of your face, your voice——"

"There you go again! You promised to stop."

"How can I, with you as inspiration? My soul expands,—my heart beats in lilting rhythms, you seem to me a flame goddess——"

"Just what is a flame goddess?" interrupted Patty, who wanted to giggle, but was too polite.

"I see your soul as a flame of fire,—a lambent flame, with tongues of red and yellow——"

And now Patty did laugh outright. She couldn't help it. "Oh, my soul hasn't tongues," she protested. "I'm sure it hasn't, Mr. Blaney."

"Yes," he repeated, "tongues, silent, untaught tongues,—but with unknown, unvoiced melodies that await but the torch of sympathy to sound, lyrically, upon the waiting air."

"Am I really like that? Do you think I could voice lyrics, myself? I mean it,—write poetry, you know. I've always wanted to. Do you think I could, Mr. Blaney?"

"I know it. Unfolding one's soul in song is not an art, as some suppose, to be learned,—it is a natural, irrepressible expression of the inner ego, it is a response to the melodic urge——"

"Oh, wait a minute, you're getting beyond me. What do all these things mean? It's so much Greek to me."

"But you want to learn?"

"Yes; that is, I'm interested in it. I always did think I'd like to write poetry. But I don't know the rules."

"There are no rules. Unfetter your soul, take a pencil,—the words will come."

"Really? Can you do that, Mr. Blaney? Could you take a pencil, now,—and just write out your soul, and produce a poem?"

Patty was very much in earnest. Sam Blaney looked at her, the eager pleading face urged him, the blue eyes dared a refusal, and the hovering smile seemed to doubt his ability to prove his own proposition.

"Of course I could!" he replied. "With you for inspiration, I could write a poem that would throb and thrill with the eternal heart of the radiance of the soul's starshine."

"Then do it," cried Patty; "I believe you, I thoroughly believe you, but I want to see it. I want the poem for myself. Give it to me."

Slowly Blaney took a pencil and notebook from his pocket. He sat gazing at her, and Patty, fairly beaming with eager interest, waited. For some minutes he sat, silent, almost motionless, and she began to grow restless.

"I don't want to hurry you," she said, at last, "but I mustn't stay here too long. Please write it now, Mr. Blaney. I'm sure you can do it,—why delay?"

"Yes, I can do it," he said, "but I want to get the highest, the divinest inspiration, in order to produce a gem worthy of your acceptance."

"Well, don't wait longer for that. Give me your second best, if need be,—only write something. I've always wanted to see a real, true poet write a real true poem. I never had a chance before. Now, don't dare disappoint me!"

Patty looked very sweet and coaxing, and her voice was earnestly pleading, not at all implying doubt of his ability or willingness.

Still Blaney sat, thoughtfully regarding her.

"Come, come," she said, after another wait, "I shall begin to think you can't be inspired by my presence, after all! If you are, genius ought to burn by this time. If not, I suppose we'll have to give it up,—but it will disappoint me horribly."

The blue eyes were full of reproach, and Patty began to draw her scarf round her shoulders and seemed about to rise.

"No, no," protested Blaney, putting out a hand to detain her, "a moment,—just a moment,—stay, I have it!"

He began to scribble rapidly, and, fascinated, Patty watched him. Occasionally he glanced at her, but it was with a faraway look in his eyes, and an exalted expression on his face.

He wrote fast, but not steadily, now and then pausing, as if waiting for the right word, and then doing two or three lines without hesitation. Finally, he drew a long sigh, and the poem seemed to be finished.

"It is done," he said, "not worthy of your acceptance, but made for you. Shall I read it to you?"

"Yes, do," and Patty was thrilled by the fervour in his tones.

In the soft, low voice that was one of his greatest charms, Blaney read these lines:

"I loved her.—Why? I never knew.—Perhaps Because her face was fair; perhaps because Her eyes were blue and wore a weary air;— Perhaps . . . perhaps because her limpid face Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein The dimples found no place to anchor and Abide; perhaps because her tresses beat A froth of gold about her throat, and poured In splendour to the feet that ever seemed Afloat. Perhaps because of that wild way Her sudden laughter overleapt propriety; Or—who will say?—perhaps the way she wept."

The lovely voice ceased, and its musical vibrations seemed to hover in the air after the sound was stilled.

"It's beautiful," Patty said, at last, in an awed tone; "I had no idea you could write like that! Why, it's real poetry."

"You're real poetry," said Blaney, simply, as he put the written paper in his pocket.

"No, no," cried Patty, "give it to me. It's mine. You made it for me and it's mine. Nobody ever made a real poem for me before. I want it."

"Oh, nonsense, you don't want it."

"Indeed I do. I must have it."

"Will you promise not to show it to anybody?"

"'Course not! I'll show it to everybody!"

"Then you can't have it. I'm sensitive, I admit, but I can't bear to have the children of my brain bruited to the world——"

"I haven't a notion what bruited means, but I promise you I won't do that. I'll keep it sacredly guarded from human eyes, and read it to myself when I'm all alone. Why, Mr. Blaney, it's a wonderful poem. I've simply got to have it, and that's all there is about that!"

"I give it to you, then, but don't,—please don't show it to the hilarious populace. It is for you only."

"All right. I'll keep it for me only. But I haven't half thanked you for it. I do appreciate it, I assure you, and I feel guilty because I underrated your talent. But perhaps it is because I saw you do it, that I care so very much for it. Anyway, I thank you."

Patty held out her hand in genuine gratitude, and, taking it gently, Blaney held it a moment as he said, "I claim my reward. May I come to see you in New York?"

"Yes, indeed, I'll be awfully glad to have you. And Alla must come, too. I'll make a party for you as soon as the wedding is over. Will you be at that?"

"At the reception, yes. And I shall see you there?"

"Of course. I say, Mr. Blaney, why don't you write a wedding poem for Miss Galbraith? She'd love it! She wants everything for her wedding that can possibly be procured."

"No. A poem of mine cannot be ordered, as from a caterer!"

"Oh, forgive me! I didn't mean that. But, I thought you might write one, because I asked you."

"No, Miss Fairfield. Anything you want for yourself, but not for others. A thousand times no! You understand?"

"Yes, of course. I oughtn't to have asked you. But I'm so delighted with this poem of mine, that I spoke unthinkingly. Now, I must run away; Elise is beckoning frantically, and I daresay the guests are taking leave of me, and I'm not there! Good-bye, Mr. Blaney, until we meet in New York. And thank you more than I can say for your gift, your ever-to-be treasured gift."

"It is my privilege to have offered it and for me to thank you for the opportunity."



CHAPTER IX

A SHOWER

"If you ask me," Patty said to Nan, "I think these 'shower' affairs are ridiculous. All the girls who are coming today will give Mona a wedding present, so why add a shower gift?"

"I didn't ask you," returned Nan, "but since you raise the question, I'll just remark, in passing, that it's part of the performance, and it's no more ridiculous than lots of the other flummery that goes along with a this year's model wedding. I didn't have any showers,—but that was then."

"Right you are, Lady Gay, and as Mona most especially desired this mark of esteem from her friends, I'm glad she's going to have it."

"But I thought showers were usually surprises,—I didn't know the bride-elect requested one, or even knew of it beforehand."

"Your think is correct. It's most unusual, but Mona is unusual, and any surprise in connection with her wedding would be impossible. She knows it all, and the arrangements are all under her direct supervision. It's going to be a pretty stunning affair, Nansome."

"So I gather from what I hear. While you were at Lakewood, I didn't get much of the news about it, but since your return I've heard of nothing else."

"And you won't until after the fifteenth. I declare, Nan, I've had no time for a real heart to heart talk with you since I got back. I haven't even told you about the Blaneys."

"Oh, the highbrow people? No; were they interesting?"

"Yes, indeed. You'll meet them at the wedding. Now, see here, I've asked half a dozen of the crowd to stay to dinner tonight after the shower, so look after the commissariat, won't you?"

"With pleasure. Who's staying?"

"Oh, Mona and Roger and Elise and Kit Cameron and Phil,—that's all."

"Elise and Kit are pretty good friends, aren't they?"

"Yes, there may be another wedding in the dim future."

"Be careful, Patty. They say 'Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride,' you know."

"Goodness! I must beware. I was bridesmaid for Christine,—and now for Mona,—then, if I'm bridesmaid for Elise, my last hope vanishes! I might be her maid of honor, though. Does that count?"

"Yes, counts just the same. But perhaps you'll be married before Elise. She isn't engaged yet."

"Neither am I."

"Same as."

"Indeed it isn't same as! Philip made me pretty mad down at Lakewood. He scorned my new friends, the Blaneys, and he was most disagreeable about it, too."

"All right. Far be it from me to hasten your matrimonial alliance. I'm only too glad to keep you here. It's lonesome enough, days when you're away."

"Nice old Nan!" and Patty gave her a whirlwind hug that nearly took her off her feet.

Twenty girls were invited to the shower, and Mona arrived first of all. She came bustling in enveloped in furs, which she unfastened and threw off as she talked.

"Everything's going fine!" she announced. "I've attended to the very smallest details myself, so there'll be no mistakes. There always are mistakes and oversights at a wedding and mine is going to be the great exception. My, but I'm tired! I've been chasing about since early this morning. Spent hours with the floral artist, and had a long interview with the caterer. But I confab with him every day. I've changed the menu four times already."

"You're a goose, Mona," observed Patty, smiling at her enthusiastic friend, "what do you care what people eat at your wedding, as long as it's good and proper?"

"My dear child, I only expect to get married once in my checkered career, and so I want everything connected with the occasion to be perfect. I don't want to look back and regret that I didn't have as much of a symphony in the supper as I did in the orchestra. You don't know the responsibility of a girl who has to get married and look after the wedding both. You'll have Mrs. Nan to run the arrangements, but I haven't anybody but little Mona."

The bride-elect looked so radiant and capable and generally happy, that Patty knew better than to waste any sympathy on her.

"You love it all, Mona," she said, "you're just in your element ordering decorations and deciding menus; and I suppose you've superintended the hat-check people and the elevator service."

"Of course I have. I practically run the whole hotel just at present. The management have to take a back seat where anything connected with the fifteenth is concerned."

"It doesn't seem like a wedding at all," laughed Patty. "It is more like a pageant."

"It's a wedding, all right. You'll realise it when you see me go off with Roger. Oh, Patty, don't think I don't realise and appreciate the importance and solemnity of the marriage tie, but I do want the appointments to be perfect and beautiful just because it is my wedding to Roger. We're very much in love, you know——"

"I do know it, Mona, and it's all beautiful, and I'm glad you're having everything just as you want it. You're an old dear, and nobody wishes you more happiness than I do."

"Don't talk in that strain, or I'll weep on your shoulder. I'm all keyed up, you know—honest, Patty, it's pretty awful to have no mother or aunt or anything. Only just a father, who's heavenly kind and generous, but no good for advice or consulting talks."

"All right, Mona girl, we won't indulge in real talk now, for the girls will begin to come in a minute. Go and primp a little, and then come down to the drawing-room."

Patty ran downstairs, Mona soon followed, and then the guests arrived.

In an effort to have a new sort of a shower, Patty had decreed a lace shower, and many and varied were the gifts. As Patty had wisely remarked, lace gave a wide scope. One could choose valuable specimens of real lace or trifling affairs that were pretty and inexpensive.

And so, when the time for their exhibition came the score of merry young people sat breathlessly awaiting the fun.

In the doorway appeared Elise, in the costume of a Brittany peasant. She carried a huge white basket ornamented with orange blossoms and fluttering white ribbons.

"Laces, lady?" she said, approaching Mona. "Nice, pretty laces. Handiwork of the humble peasants for the grand lady. Accept,—please."

With bows and curtseys, Elise opened the basket and placed it at Mona's feet.

Delightedly, Mona examined the contents, and at each gift a chorus of exclamations went up from all the admiring throng.

Patty's offering was a tablecloth of Filet Antique and Venetian embroidery, and was among the most beautiful in the lot.

Elise gave a berthe of rose point, and Nan a Duchesse lace fan. But most of the gifts were of a simpler nature, and dainty boudoir pillows, table scarfs, bags, caps, and handkerchiefs made up the filmy shower and delighted the heart of the recipient.

Mona was radiant with joy. Although a pampered favourite of fortune, she was especially fond of receiving gifts, and she loved every individual lace confection and warmly thanked the donors.

"The things are heavenly, girls," she cried; "perfectly darling, every one of them! I can't thank you enough, but my heart is just overflowing with honest-to-goodness gratitude. Oh, I do love 'em so!" and gathering the whole lot in her arms, she rocked back and forth in ecstasy. "How did you ever come to think of a lace shower, Patty? I love lace more than anything on earth—except Roger,—and I shall furnish my house with these beauty things. Oh, you are all so good to me!"

Tea was served in the dining-room, and Mona graced the head of the table, with her bridal attendants on either side of her. The place cards and favours were all suggestive of the wedding occasion, and, for a centrepiece, two white doves perched on a basket of white roses.

Mona was in highest spirits and her eyes glistened with pleasure as the girls assured her of their friendship and love, and wished her all sorts of future joy and happiness.

Patty looked at her a little curiously, and then she realised that the girl had lived a loveless life, and that the sudden change to the atmosphere of love and friendship had well-nigh turned her head.

The guests departed, all but Mona and Elise, who were to stay for dinner, and the three chums went up to Patty's room to chat.

"I can't believe these things are really mine," said Mona, as she collected and arranged her laces, preparatory to having them sent home. "Why is everybody so good to me?"

"Oh, come now, Mona," said Elise, laughing, "it isn't such wonderful goodness. People always give things to brides. Patty, if you don't give me a shower like this, I won't get married at all."

"Didn't know you thought of it," returned Patty. "But I'll promise the shower all right. When shall I invite the girls, Elise?"

"Oh, I haven't picked out the bridegroom yet, so there's no hurry. I've got to get used to having my brother married, before I think of it myself. Mona, we'll soon be sisters. Think of that!"

"I've often thought of it, Elise. I've never had a sister, and I shan't know just how to act at first. But I hope——"

"There now, don't get sentimental! Not but what I feel that way, too, but you'll get weepy in a minute,—and then it's all up with you!"

"You're so emotional, Mona," said Patty, smiling at her, "and so capable, and so generally all-round efficient, you're just the one to get married. Now, when it comes my turn, I don't want all this hullabaloo,—I think I shall get a good old rope ladder and elope."

"What! and not have any showers and music and reception and everything?"

"Oh, well, I don't know. We'll see when the time comes. But just now, we must put this affair of yours through. I'm glad there are only a few more days. I couldn't stand this excitement very long. Come on, girls, get ready for dinner. The boys will come soon. There's the bell now. If it's Roger, let Mona go down and see him alone. I'm a fine gooseberry, don't you think so?"

"It is Roger," Patty announced, a moment later, as she leaned over the banister to see, "skip along, Mona, we'll be down in ten minutes."

"Isn't she funny?" said Elise, as Patty returned to her room. "I never saw anybody so crazy."

"She's so excited, she doesn't know whether she's on her head or her heels," agreed Patty. "Her nature is volatile, and she has no sense of moderation. She wants everything and all there is of it. That's all."

"She's a good one for Roger. He's inclined to take things lazily. Mona will be a sort of spur to him."

"They're all right," agreed Patty. "It's an ideal match. Come on, Elise, we've given them enough time alone."

The girls went down, and then Van Reypen and Kit Cameron appeared.

Dinner was a gay feast, and the elder Fairfields were as much interested in the chatter as the young people.

"Assert yourself, Roger," said Mr. Fairfield. "Don't let these girls monopolize the conversation, with their feminine fripperies and millinery muddles."

"Models, Dad, not muddles," laughed Patty. "But we don't talk about those much now, they're all finished. Oh, Mona, Genevieve's skirt had to be all made over——"

"Oh, no," said her father, "you don't talk about them much! Only all the time, that's all!"

"Let 'em," said Roger, magnanimously; "I've learned in the last few days, that the hang of Genevieve's skirt is a matter of enormous magnitude."

"Good!" cried Patty, "Mona has begun training you already. When is your Bachelor dinner, Roger?"

"Not till Wednesday night. I put it off so Farnsworth could get here."

"Oh, is he coming? I didn't know he was East."

"He wasn't. He's coming on on purpose for the event. I wanted him especially. At least, Mona did."

"All the same," said Mona. "Oh, yes, of course I wanted Big Bill here. We've been friends for years, and he must dance at my wedding."

It was the first time Patty had seen Van Reypen since her return from Lakewood, and, during the evening, he drew her away from the others and leading her to the semi-privacy of a big davenport in the library, he announced he was going to talk to her.

"Talk away," said Patty, "but I warn you, I've no time or attention for anything not connected with wedding bells."

"But this is connected with wedding bells," and Philip's dark eyes smiled into her own, "only, not Mona's chimes. Our own."

"Don't, Phil," said Patty, gently, noting his serious look and tone. "I've got four days yet till the fifteenth, and,—oh, pshaw, I might as well tell you now, that I'm not going to be engaged to you."

"Patty!" and Van Reypen's face went white. "You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do. I've had so much wedding doings for Mona, I'm sick and tired of it. I don't want to be engaged myself, or hear of anybody else being engaged, until I forget all about all this fuss and feathers."

"There does seem to be an awful lot of fussy feathers, or whatever you call it, about the affair, doesn't there?"

"Yes; and I'm glad to do all I can for Mona. I'm enjoying it, too, but I don't want any wedding of my own for years and years and years."

"By that time you'll be a pretty old bird. You ticked off a goodly number of years just then. But, seriously, Patty, I don't want to bother you——"

"Well, you do bother me. Why, Phil, every single chance you get, you talk about——"

"About my love for you? I mean to, Patty, but you don't give me a chance. When I try to tell you of my love and devotion, you break loose about not wanting to be engaged——"

"Well, of course I do. A girl doesn't want to hear of love and devotion from a man she isn't engaged to, does she?"

"I don't know. I hope so, in this case. That is, I hope I'm the man you're going to be engaged to, and soon, so I can tell you of my love and devotion. They're deep, Patty, deep and true, and——"

"Then why did you treat me so horridly down at Lakewood, just because I enjoyed having to do with people who had some brains and weren't of the silly, addle-pated type we meet mostly in our own class of society?"

"But, Patty, dearest, those Blaneys aren't the real things. They haven't education and genius,—they only pretend they have."

"Phil, I think you're horrid. They have so. Why, Sam Blaney wrote a poem that's the most beautiful thing I ever read!"

"Let me see it."

"I can't. I promised I wouldn't. It's—it's sort of sacred——"

"A sacred poem! Blaney?"

"No, I don't mean religious. But it's sacred to me,—it's—it's a real poem, you see."

"Well, he isn't a real poet, by a long chalk! I did think, Patty, that when you came home from Lakewood you'd forget all that rubbish bunch."

"How you do love to call them names! I don't think it's nice of you, one bit. They're going to be at the wedding, and I hope you'll be decent to them then, as they're my friends."

"Oh, I'll be decent to them, but I shan't have any time to waste on them. I've a matter of my own on hand for that night. A girl I wot of has promised to give me her answer to a question I asked, and, when the time comes, I can't help thinking that that girl is going to be kind to me."

"I dunno," said Patty.



CHAPTER X

MONA'S WEDDING

It was the night of Mona's wedding. The ballroom of the big hotel where Mona and her father lived was the scene of the ceremony, and this was already filled with guests. A temporary altar had been erected at one end of the long room, and was banked with lilies and white hydrangeas against a background of tall palms. On either side were tall candles in cathedral candlesticks.

To the altar led a temporary aisle, formed by stanchions of old silver candelabra filled with ascension lilies, and joined by garlands of white blossoms.

Promptly on time, the bridal cortege appeared. First walked a vested choir singing a processional. Then the bridesmaids, in palest pink tulle frocks, each pair carrying between them a long garland of pink roses, and wearing wreaths of pink roses on their hair.

Patty and Daisy Dow were the first pair, and very lovely they looked as they traversed the flower-hung room. Garlands of pink roses were everywhere, on the walls, from the doorframes and windows, and gracefully drooping from the ceiling. Next came Elise, Maid of Honor, in a gown of slightly deeper pink, and then Mona, her father beside her.

The bride's gown was of point lace with a very long court train of embroidered satin. Her veil, of old lace, was an heirloom from her mother, and was held by a wreath of orange blossoms. Roger's gift of a diamond pendant was her only jewel.

After the ceremony, as the bridal party retraced their steps, the bridesmaids sang softly, "O Perfect Love," and then they took their places for the reception, the orchestra's strains broke forth, and the festivities began. Having no mother or near feminine relative, Mona had asked Nan to receive with her, and very gracefully Nan did the honours.

"A beautiful wedding," everybody said, and then there arrived many more guests who had been asked to the reception only.

The room became crowded and people wandered into the adjoining rooms which were also for the use of the guests.

Patty stood in the line of the bridal party and smiled and chatted with the stream of people who drifted by, murmuring congratulatory phrases. Mona was supremely happy and she looked it. Not only was she married to the man she loved, but the wedding was just such a pageant of beauty and grandeur as she had wished it to be and no smallest item of the preparations had gone wrong. She stood by Roger's side, now and then glancing up into his face with a smile of happiness and contentment.

The bridegroom looked proud and happy. He hadn't cared for so much elaboration of entertainment, but Mona had wanted it, and so he acquiesced in all particulars.

"When will it be all over and we can get away?" he whispered in her ear.

"Oh, not for hours," returned his new wife. "There's the feast, and then the dancing,—I don't want to miss a bit of it! Why, Roger, this is our wedding party."

"Yes, I gathered as much! All right, dearest, stay as long as you like."

"It is a pretty wedding, isn't it, Roger? You like it, don't you?" Mona looked suddenly troubled.

"Of course I do, darling. I like it better than any wedding I ever attended! I've only seen one thing, though,—that's you. Are there other people here?"

"Oh, a few! Three or four hundred, anyway. But where's Bill Farnsworth? I haven't seen him yet."

"He came in late. I just caught sight of him a minute ago. Probably he's trying to get through the crowd to us."

Which was just what Farnsworth was doing. He had arrived during the ceremony, and had not yet made his way to the bridal party.

In fact, he was continually stopped in his progress by acquaintances who greeted him and held him in conversation.

But at last he reached the bride.

"My dear Mona," he cried, "don't look so happy! You dazzle me!"

Mona beamed more joyously than ever, and Roger warmly welcomed Farnsworth.

"Splendid affair," Bill went on. "Looks like Fairyland or some enchanted garden. I was wafted in on the strains of the orchestra, and I can scarcely hold myself down on terra firma. But I mustn't monopolise the prince and princess of this magic realm. I'll try for a few words, later, but now I must make way for the crowd behind me. Oh, how do you do, Patty? How are you? You're looking splendid. And Daisy! Well, it's good to see you again. By the way, Daisy, I saw Lou Standish last week in Arizona. He sent greetings to you."

"Oh, did you, Bill? Did you see Lou? Tell me more about him."

Patty turned aside, her gaiety suddenly gone. What did Bill Farnsworth mean by treating her like that? A blank stare from him would have surprised her no more than those few careless words, flung at her hastily, as if she were the merest acquaintance. She felt as if a bucket of ice water had been splashed on her head and was still trickling down her shoulders.

"Come back, Miss Fairfield," she heard somebody saying gaily, and with a start she realised she had been staring blankly into vacancy so stunned was she by Farnsworth's manner.

It was Sam Blaney who spoke, and as he had taken her hand and still held it, Patty suddenly recovered her poise and spirits.

"Time's up, Mr. Blaney," she laughed. "You have had my hand fully three minutes, and that's the limit. Somebody else may want it."

"Possession is nine points of the law," said Blaney, still retaining her hand.

"But appropriation isn't possession," and Patty gently withdrew her hand from his detaining fingers.

"No, possession must be granted. Perhaps some time——"

"Some time——" Patty assented, smiling, and dismissing Blaney, as more and more people came along.

But at last the reception was over, and the bridal party went to their especial table in the supper room.

Mona, still resplendent in her heavy court train and bridal laces, cut her wedding cake. She had never looked more beautiful. The long reception had tired her a little, but though the animation in her face was not so vivid, there was a lovely radiant light in her eyes, and her smile was gentle and sweet.

"Roger on this side of me," she said, arranging her table, "Dad on this. The rest of you may sit where you like. I've stopped directing this party,—or any other. I've conducted the little affair of this evening to a successful conclusion, and now I resign all generalship and all planning and arranging to my husband. I'm glad to give up all responsibilities, and I'm going to lead a life of leisure while Roger looks after things for me."

"Good little wife!" said Patty. "I foresee happy days and clear sailing under such regulations."

"If you keep it up," laughed Kit Cameron. "You're pretty well tired out now, Mrs. Farrington, but I'm not sure you're going to stand aside always, when matters of importance arise."

"Yes, she will," declared Roger. "You see, I shall rule her with a rod of iron, and she'll be so terrified of me, that she won't dare cross my lightest whim."

They all laughed at this, for Roger had the most easy-going of natures and had never been known to insist upon his own way.

Patty sat between Van Reypen and Kit Cameron, and opposite her, across the table, was Bill Farnsworth, next to Daisy Dow.

His careless, impersonal greeting still rankled in Patty's mind, but, though it both hurt and angered her, she had no intention of showing her feelings. So, she went to the other extreme and was madly gay and merry, laughing and jesting with everybody and enjoying herself to the utmost.

She looked adorable. The pale pink of her bridesmaid costume was most becoming and her wreath of pink roses, which had slipped a little to one side, gave her the effect of a Queen Titania. Her eyes were like two blue stars, and a pink flush showed on her cheeks, while her scarlet lips smiled or pouted with her changing moods.

"Did you ever see such colouring as that girl has!" murmured Daisy Dow to Farnsworth. "I never saw such truly gold hair, or such blue blue eyes, or such a wonderful complexion."

Daisy spoke whole-heartedly and generously, for she loved Patty, and she thought her the prettiest girl she knew.

"She is pretty," agreed Farnsworth. "Tell me about her,—about all the crowd. I've been away a month and lots can happen in that time. Is Patty engaged to Van Reypen?"

"It isn't announced," said Daisy, "but I think she really is. I shouldn't be surprised if they announce it tonight, after Mona goes away."

"Fine chap, Van Reypen. How about the others? Kit and Elise?"

"Yes, I think so. Though that isn't announced either. Goodness, Bill, suppose they all get engaged and married and leave me to be the only old maid in our set!"

"No fear of that, Daisy. Unless you prefer it so,—and I hope you won't."

"You hope that! Why, Bill, if I thought you hoped it——"

Just then a commotion arose as Mona left the table.

"Ready, girls," she cried out. "I'm going to toss my bouquet. Hold out your hands, all of you."

Obediently, her bridesmaids stood in a row, with their hands held out. There was no question of catching the flowers, for Mona after deliberately looking over the lot, tossed it into Patty's hands. "For you," she said, and, laughing, ran away.

"Greatness thrust upon me!" Patty laughed, looking at the great bunch of white orchids and valley lilies, with its fluttering tendrils and ends of ribbon. "Must I really live up to this favour? Must I really be a bride myself before the year is up? Of course, if it is obligatory——"

She looked up, half shy, and caught Van Reypen's gaze upon her. She turned toward Farnsworth, but he was looking another way. Plucking one stem of lilies of the valley from the bunch she tossed it to Phil, who caught it, kissed it, and put it in his buttonhole. Farnsworth looked round just in time to see the act, and smiled at her.

"Didn't mean anything," said Patty, perversely, and then, pulling out half a dozen more sprays, she threw them indiscriminately around, to Cameron, and several of the other ushers who were grouped about. Farnsworth made a slight effort to catch one, but he didn't really try, and the flower fell to the floor just beyond his reach. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, but made no move to pick it up.

Just then Sam Blaney came along, and Patty offered him a flower, and herself adjusted it in his buttonhole.

"I'm crazy to talk to you," he said, "but I didn't belong at your supper table. Can't we go somewhere and have a bit of a chat?"

"Yes," agreed Patty, "only not too far away from the bride's crowd. Mona will be going away soon, and I must see her go, of course. Didn't she look beautiful?"

"Not in comparison with somebody else I know."

"I'm a mind reader, Mr. Blaney, and I perceive you mean me. But you're mistaken. I'm pretty, in a doll-faced way, but Mona is really beautiful."

"You know where beauty is, Miss Fairfield. In the eye of the beholder."

"Let me see. Yes," after she had looked straight into Blaney's eyes, "yes, you have beauty in your eyes."

"The reflection of your face," he replied, serenely. "You are a flower-face; I never saw any one who so well merited the term. I must write a sonnet to Flower Face."

"It can't be any better poetry than the verses you wrote to me at Lakewood. They are exquisite. Mayn't I show them?"

"Please not. I fancied you would like to keep them just for yourself. Stay, I have a better name for you. Flower Soul, that's what you are. That shall be the theme of my sonnet. I think your soul is made of white lilac."

"Why do you people always talk about souls?" asked Patty, gaily. "You don't mean souls really, you know; you mean—well, what do you mean?"

"No, we don't mean souls in the theological sense, we mean the higher understanding and finer sensations."

"Oh," said Patty, not much enlightened.

"And you are coming to see us soon, aren't you? Alla said you promised her you would."

"Yes, I did. And I will come. Do you have regular meetings, like a club,—or what?"

"Yes, like a club, but not on set dates. I'll let you know when the next one—or, stay, I know now. There will be a gathering at our place next Tuesday night. Will you attend? May I come and fetch you?"

"Yes, do, I'd love to be there. Gracious, here comes Mona. I must be with the others."

Patty hurried across the room to stand with the bridal attendants, and, looking very handsome in her travelling costume, Mona bade them good-bye. There was no mad scramble as the bride and groom departed, but flower petals and confetti were showered on them, which they good-naturedly allowed.

"Come along, my lady," said Roger, at last, as Mona delayed to talk to the girls.

And then they went away, and some of the guests stayed to dance a little longer.

"Come, Patty," said Van Reypen, as the orchestra struck up, "this is our dance."

Patty assented, and they went gliding over the perfect floor.

Philip said nothing while they danced, and Patty, too, was silent. This was unusual, for Patty generally chattered as she danced.

"Tired, dear?" said Philip, at last.

"A little. It has been a long evening."

"And a strenuous one. I saw you were getting weary as you stood in that line of receiving so long. Come, let us sit down."

Philip guided her to a pleasant settee, screened by tall palms, and seated himself beside her.

"Poor little girl," he said, "you're all done up. You must go home soon, Patty. You can't dance any more tonight."

"Oh, yes, I can. I'm not really tired. It's more excitement and——"

"And nerves. I know,—Mona getting married means a lot to you. You're very intimate friends, aren't you?"

"Yes; and as she has no mother, Nan and I have tried to do all we could for her, but she is so capable, we couldn't do much, after all."

"No; I suppose not. Patty, why did she give you her bouquet? I thought brides threw them, and any one caught them that could."

"They do, usually."

"Well, then, why didn't Mona?"

"Oh, because,—oh, I don't know."

"You do know, Patty. Was it because she thinks you will be the next bride of your set? Because she thinks you will marry—me?"

Phil's eyes were radiant, and his voice trembled as he whispered, "And will you, dear? Will you, my little Patty? You promised, you know, to tell me tonight. So, tell me,—and tell me,—yes."

Patty sat up very straight and looked at him. "Philip," she said, and her voice was serious; "if I have to decide now, it will be No. I did say I'd tell you tonight, and I meant to, but I'm all tired and bothered, and if I'm not careful, I shall cry! So, if you hold me to my promise, I'll answer you now, but it will be No. I can't say Yes,—tonight."

"Then don't say anything. I'll wait, dearest. Oh, Patty, of course, I'll wait. You are exhausted and nervous and you want to rest. Don't answer me now, dear, for I don't want that answer you spoke of! Let's wait a week or so longer, and then make up our mind. Shall us?"

"Yes, Phil, and thank you for being so good to me."



CHAPTER XI

THE CITY STUDIO

"I'm quite anxious to see this paragon of a poet," said Nan, as she sat in Patty's room one evening.

Patty was dressing for the party at the Blaneys', and Sam was coming to take her.

"You'll like him, Nan, you can't help it. He is most interesting,—not a bit like other men. And they have such delightful people at their parties. They do big things, you know,—really big."

"Such as what?"

"Oh, they sing, and play on unusual instruments,—zitherns and lutes——"

"That doesn't sound so awfully wonderful."

"No; I suppose not. But it's the way they do it,—and the—the atmosphere, you know, and the general exalted effect——"

"The what?"

"Oh, I don't know how to express it so you'll understand,—but I like it all. It's on a higher plane than the usual evening party."

"Don't they dance?"

"Yes, some. But more Solo dances, and Interpretative ones. I'm going to do a splendid dance for them, soon. Mr. Blaney is making it up for me."

"Can I see it?"

"I guess so. I think they mean to have a large audience for that occasion."

"What are you doing, Patty? Are you going to wear your hair like that?"

"Yes, Sam likes it so."

"But, my gracious goodness, you look like a crazy person!"

"Oh, not so bad as that."

Patty spoke carelessly, but her colour heightened a little. She was sitting at her toilet mirror, while Nan lounged in an easy chair, near by. Patty's golden hair was drawn smoothly down from a central part, and tightly confined at the back of her neck, where it was rolled and twisted into an immense knot, hard and round, that was exceedingly unbecoming.

"It's awful!" declared Nan, "I never saw you look really plain before."

"It's all right," and Patty tossed her head. "That fluffy, curly business is a sign of a light-weight brain,—this arrangement is far more intellectual."

"And is that your gown!" Nan fairly gasped, as Patty took from her wardrobe a strange-looking affair of mulberry-coloured woolen goods.

"Yes, it's really stunning, Nan. I had it made by Alla Blaney's dressmaker, and it's a triumph."

"Looks to me as if it had been made by a dressmaker in the house."

"Not much! It's a marvel of line and type. Wait till it's all on."

Patty adjusted the shapeless garment, which hung in loose folds from her shoulders, but which, with its muddy hue and clumsy drapery, was decidedly unattractive. Over it she put on a sort of tunic of green and orange damask, edged with glittering sequins.

"Oh," cried Nan, relieved, "I didn't know it was a fancy dress affair."

"It isn't," returned Patty. "They all wear this sort of clothes."

"They do? Are they supposed to be brainy?—Blaney, I mean!"

"Don't be unpleasant, Nancy, it doesn't suit you. And, honestly, I like these people, and I like to be with them. Now, it would be silly of me to wear my usual dance frocks where everybody dresses quite differently. So, don't criticise unkindly, will you?"

"Of course not, you goosie. But it seems a shame when you look so pretty in your own clothes, to wear these hideous duds."

"Thank you for the compliment on the side, but the Cosmic Centre people think I look rather well in these things. I haven't shown them this gown yet, but I know they'll love it."

"It's lucky for you your father isn't at home! He'd make you take it right straight off."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't, Nancy-lady. I'm not a little girl any more, to be scolded and sent to bed. There, I'm ready."

Patty had added a long string of queer-looking beads, terminating in a huge pendant of Oriental effect. It was composed of coloured stones set in dingy metalwork.

"Where did you get that horror? Gift from the Cosmickers?"

"Funny, aren't you? No, I bought it myself, out of my hard-saved income. It's great! I found it at Ossilovi's. He says there isn't another like it out of Asia."

"I should hope not! Though I doubt if it ever saw Asia."

"Nan, you're positively unbearable! One more speech of that sort, and I'll be right down mad at you."

"Forgive me, Patty, I did let my feelings run away with me. It's all right for you to do these things if you want to, but it doesn't seem like you,—and it jars, somehow."

They went downstairs, and soon Sam Blaney came to take Patty away.

Nan greeted him very pleasantly, but inspected him very carefully. He was not in evening dress, their coterie did not approve of anything so conventional. This was against him in Nan's eyes, for she was a stickler for the formalities. But as he threw back his topcoat, and she saw his voluminous soft silk tie of magenta with vermilion dots, his low rolling collar, and his longish mane of hair, she felt an instinctive dislike to the man. Her sense of justice, however, made her reserve judgment until she knew more of him, and she invited him to tarry a few moments.

Blaney sat down, gracefully enough, and chatted casually, but Patty realised that Nan was looking him over and resented it. And, somehow, Blaney didn't appear to advantage in the Fairfield drawing-room, as he did in his own surroundings. His attitude, while polite, was the least bit careless, and his courtesy was indolent rather than alert. In fact, he conducted himself as an old friend might have done, but in a way which was not permissible in a stranger.

Nan led the conversation to the recent work of some comparatively new and very worthwhile poets. She asked Blaney his opinion of a certain poem.

"Oh, that," and the man hesitated, "well, you see,—I—ah,—that is, I'm reserving my opinion as to that man's work,—yes, reserving my opinion."

"And a good idea, too," agreed Nan. "One shouldn't judge, hastily. But you've doubtless made up your mind regarding this poet," and she picked up a book from the table, containing the poems of another modern and much discussed writer.

"Oh, yes," said Blaney, "oh, yes, of course. But, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Fairfield, I'd rather not announce my views. You see, I—er—that is,—I might be quoted wrongly,—misquoted, you know, and it would militate against my influence,—yes,—militate against my standing. One must be so careful."

"Indeed you are right," Nan said, smiling at him; "a poet yourself, you must be careful of what you say about others."

"Yes, just that. How quickly you understand."

Patty and her escort went away, and after a short silence, Blaney said, "You didn't show Mrs. Fairfield the verses I wrote for you, did you?"

"No," said Patty, "I promised you I wouldn't."

"And I didn't mean to doubt your word, but I thought you might think that your mother—or stepmother, didn't count."

"No, I haven't shown them to any one. But I wish you weren't so sensitive about your beautiful work."

"I wish so, too," and Blaney sighed. "But it's the penalty of——"

"Of genius, why not say it?"

"Yes, why not say it? I'm glad you recognise the beauty of truth spoken in defiance of conventional modesty."

"Oh, yes, I do think if one is talented, it is silly to deny it."

"It is. That is why our people are so frankly sane and honest about their own achievements——"

"And yet, you're so modest,—I mayn't show your verses!"

"That's a different matter. You know those were for your eyes alone."

"I know. I will keep them for myself."

The Studio of the Blaneys in the city was much like the one Patty had seen at Lakewood, only a little more elaborately bizarre. The Moorish lamps were bigger and dustier: the thick brocade draperies a little more faded and tattered; the furniture a little more gilded and wobbly.

Alla came gliding to greet Patty, and gave her an enthusiastic welcome.

"You darling!" she cried, "you very darling! Look at her, everybody! Look! Gloat over this bit of perfect perfection! Did you ever see anything so wonderful?"

Alla had led Patty to the middle of the room, and she now turned her round and round, like a dressmaker exhibiting a model.

Patty felt no embarrassment, for the people all about accepted the exhibition as a matter of course, and gazed at her in smiling approbation. Moreover, all the guests were dressed as unconventionally as Patty, and even more so. There were more queer costumes than she had seen at the Lakewood party, more weird effects of hairdressing and more eccentric posing and posturing. The New York branch of these Bohemians were evidently farther advanced in their cult than the others she had seen.

A little bewildered, Patty allowed herself to be ensconced on a crimson and gold Davenport, and listened to a rattle of conversation that was partly intelligible, and partly, it seemed to her, absolute nonsense.

"I am exploiting this gem," Alla announced, indicating Patty herself as the "gem." "She hasn't quite found herself yet,—but she will soon command the range of the whole emotional spectrum! She is a wonder! Her soul is stuffed to bursting with dynamic force! We must train her, educate her, show her, gently guide her dancing feet in the paths of beauty,—in the star-strewn paths of cosmic beauty."

"We will!" shouted a dozen voices. "What can she do?"

"Dance," replied Alla. "But such dancing! She is a will-o'-the-wisp, a pixie, a thistledown, a butterfly!"

"All those and more," said Sam Blaney. "She is a velvet angel, a rose-coloured leaf in the wind, a fluttering scarf end."

"What imagery!" murmured somebody, and some one else said, "Inspiration!" in an awed tone.

"And now to work," urged Alla. "We must plan for our holiday party. Shall we have it here?"

"Here, of course," she was answered.

"But others of you have larger homes, more pretentious dwellings——"

"But not the atmosphere. This Studio,—" it was a large-eyed young musician talking, "this hallowed room has more elevating tendency,—more inspiring atmosphere than any other. Let us meet here by all means, and let us have such a program—such a feast of glories as never before."

Then another man spoke. He was a tall young chap, with a good-natured smile, and Patty liked his face.

"I am an artist," he announced, "and a rattling good artist. I haven't yet achieved my ultimate recognition, but it will come,—it must come. I, therefore, I will undertake the task,—the ineffably joyous task of designing,—of inventing a dance for Miss Fairfield."

"Do, Grantham," cried Blaney. "No one could do it better. Dream out a scheme, a picture plan that will be worthy of our little Terpsichore. A dance that shall be a whirlwind of violets,—a tornado of lilting veils."

"Veils!" cried Grantham, "that's the keynote! A Dance of the Year,—a mad gyration of Time,—of Time, himself, translated into thistledown,—into scented thistledown."

"Bravo!" "Glorious!"

Other praises were shouted, and the place was like a pandemonium. Patty began to realise the Bohemians were a boisterous lot. She clapped her hands over her ears in smiling dismay.

"Quiet!" said Blaney, in his low, exquisite tones, and in an instant the room was almost silent.

Committees were appointed to take charge of the Christmas celebration, and then the program began.

It was long, and, to Patty, a bit uninteresting. She tried hard to understand the queer things they read or recited, but it seemed to her a continuous repetition of sound without sense. She was willing to admit her own stupidity, and noting the rapt expressions on the faces round her, she concluded the lack was in herself. The music, too, though strange and eccentric, didn't seem to her as worth while as it had done before, though it was decidedly similar. Blaney read some of his poems, to a zithern accompaniment, but they weren't very impressive, and not nearly so poetic as the lines he had written for her. She wondered if she had really inspired him to greater heights of song than he could attain without her influence.

He had assured her of this, and she began to think it might be so.

The supper followed the program. This was not enjoyed by Patty. Usually, after a dance or concert, she was hungry for some light refreshment, but in this incense-laden, smoke-heavy atmosphere, she felt no desire to eat, and had she done so, she could not have relished the viands. For they were of highly-spiced and foreign-flavoured sorts, and their principal ingredients were smoked fish, pungent sauces, and strong cheese, all of which Patty detested. Moreover, the service was far from dainty. The heavy china, thick glass, and battered, unreal silver detracted still further from the appetising effects of the feast.

But everybody was so genuinely distressed at Patty's lack of appetite and made such to-do about it, that she forced herself to eat, and even essayed a cup of their muddy, syrupy coffee.

And she enjoyed herself. She absorbed much of their jargon and stored it up in her brain for future use. She unconsciously adapted herself to their mannerisms and whimsical enthusiasm, and when she went home everybody praised her and declared her one of them and the best of them.

"By far the best," said Blaney, as he tucked her into the Fairfield limousine which, with an accompanying maid, had been sent for her. "And may I call soon, and reiterate this,—in better and longer lines?"

"Yes, do," said Patty. "I'd love to have you."

Nan was waiting up for her.

"Well, I've seen your new friend?" she said, as Patty flung off her wrap and stood for a moment by the library table.

"Yep," said Patty, smiling, "and sumpum tells me, Nan, that you're going to be disagreeable or disapproving or disappointed or dis—something or other about him. And I beg of you to don't,—at least until I get a bite of supper. I couldn't eat their old delicatessen shop stuff, and I want a decent sandwich and a glass of milk,—so I do."

"Why, you poor child! I'll get it for you. Cook has gone to bed, but I'll forage in the pantry."

"Do, that's a fairy stepmother. Bring some fruit, too, please."

Patty went up to her room, and when Nan appeared, shortly, with a most attractive supper tray, she was in kimono and cap, waiting for it.

"My, but this is good! I tell you, Nan, those Cosmickers know how to think, but they don't know a thing about foods."

"Your Blaney looks well nourished. But, he didn't strike me as very erudite. Why, Patty, he didn't know who those poets were, I asked him about!"

"Oh, yes, he did. He didn't want to discuss 'em, that's all."

"Nonsense! I saw his expression. He didn't know them, I tell you. He has never read a word of them."

"Well, he doesn't have to. He can write his own poems."

"Does he? Is he a poet, really?"

"Yes, Nan, he is. And he's all right, and Alla is, too. I don't like all their associate souls, but I like a lot of them, and you would too, if you saw them in their proper setting. Anyhow, their old symposium has tired my little brain all up, and with many thanks for your kind charity,—what there was of it—I'll let you go, if you really feel you must."

Nan laughed, for there was deep good feeling between these two, then she kissed Patty good night and went off with the empty tray.



CHAPTER XII

AN ODD DINNER PARTY

A few nights later, Patty invited the two Blaneys to dinner. Nan wanted to meet Alla, and Mr. Fairfield, too, expressed a desire to see these new friends of Patty's.

"Me and the two companies is three," said Patty, making up her party, "and you and Dad are five. Who'd make a good sixth?"

"Only six?" asked Nan. "Why not a big dinner?"

"No; I don't think so. You see, the Blaneys don't fit in with everybody, and I want them to have a good time."

"Oh, I mean ask their own sort of people."

Patty looked up, quickly. "Now, Nan, don't be unpleasant. You're implying that their kind of people are not as nice as our kind, and that hurts my feelinks, and you know it. I want you wid me on this,—not agin me."

"I am, Patty. I don't mean to be horrid. Well, have six, if you like. Who else?"

"Chick Channing, I think. He's so adaptable and all-round nice with everybody. Phil hates the Blaneys, and——"

"Mr. Farnsworth?"

"I don't think he'd like them, either. And,—too,—Bill isn't very chummy with me lately."

"Why not?"

"Dunno."

"Did you quarrel?"

"Now, Nan, don't ask such leading questions. We didn't exactly quarrel, and yet again, I suppose we did quarrel,—at least, I did,—he didn't. I sort of snubbed him, and he took it more seriously than I meant, if you call that a quarrel. But anyway, he wouldn't stand for the Blaney crowd, I'm sure of that."

"All right, ask Chick. As you say, he'll chum with anybody. He's a splendid dinner guest."

Channing accepted the invitation with pleasure, and the party was made up.

"I don't want anything eccentric or foolish," Patty said to Nan, regarding the appointments, "but I do want it aesthetic and artistic."

"You can arrange it as you like, dear," Nan said, kindly, and Patty did.

The dining-room was dimly lighted, and the table decoration consisted of an enormous bronze placque, which Patty took down from the hall wall. This held a small amount of water, and on it floated three pansies. The table candles wore deep purple shades, and Nan privately thought the whole effect dull and gloomy enough, but she said no word of criticism.

Patty appeared, in a flowing, robe-like costume of pale violet chiffon, and wore pansies in her hair over each ear.

"Well!" exclaimed her father, as he saw her, "I thought you could wear any colour, but take my advice, Kiddie, and never brave lavender again! It makes you look old and sallow."

"Nothing of the sort!" denied Patty. "You're unaccustomed to seeing me in it, that's all."

Then Channing came, and Patty had to bear his disapproving glances.

"You're an angel in anything," he said, "but you're least angelic in that mawkish mauve. You look like a member of the Art Students' Union."

Patty didn't mind their chaff, and only smiled good-naturedly, and then the Blaneys came.

Patty was used to their aesthetic effects, but the others weren't, and though the greetings were cordial and courteous, the elder Fairfields needed a moment to recover their poise. But Chick Channing was always to be depended upon, and he plunged into gay conversation that broke the ice and did away with all self-consciousness.

Nor was it surprising that the appearance of the brother and sister should strike an observer as startling. Alla was swathed in yellowish-brown stuff. Her gown seemed to have no shape or design, just draperies that wrapped her about in mummy fashion. Long sleeves came well down over her hands, a high collar rose over her ears, and the long skirt twined itself round her feet, till she could scarcely walk. The material was a woolly serge, and no bit of colour or trimming relieved the severity. She wore no ornament save a hideous necklace of great, ugly stones, that fell down as far as her knees, and carried a dilapidated old fan of peacock feathers. Patty had never seen her look so unattractive, for even in her eccentric garb, she was usually picturesque. But in this brown thing she was utterly without charm.

Sam Blaney, too, looked ill-dressed and out of place. He had bowed to convention to the extent of wearing evening clothes, but they were not of correct cut, and did not fit well, and he wore an absurd tie of soft silk, of his favourite light green hue, which gave him the appearance of a caricature.

However, the two were most affable and agreeable, and their soft, low voices murmured pleasantries suitable to the occasion.

At dinner the conversation turned on the approaching Christmas celebration of the Cosmic Centre.

"What a funny name," said Channing. "Sounds like a small village in New England."

"So it does," returned Sam Blaney, taking the jest in good part. "But we call our club that modest little name because we think ourselves the centre of the Universe."

"I always admire self-respect," said Mr. Fairfield, smiling; "I hold that a man or a club with full appreciation of self-merit can't go far wrong."

"And Cosmic Centre is so very expressive," said Channing. "I don't see how you could have well found anything more inclusive."

"Mrs. Fairfield calls you the Cosmickers," put in Patty, smiling at Nan.

"And a very good name," agreed Alla. "Cosmickers sounds a bit like picknickers, and often that's what we are."

"What is your real end and aim?" asked Mr. Fairfield, seriously.

"Advancement of beauty and appreciation of art," replied Alla, looking thoughtful and a little affected.

"Interpretation of beauty," amended her brother. "We endeavour to imbue our souls with the highest and best emotions and to discard and disown all that is merely conventional and formal in life or in thought."

"Meaning the outward and ordinary signs of clothes and manners?" said Chick.

Patty detected the chaffing note in his voice, but his tone was grave and respectful, and after a quick glance at him, Blaney replied, "Yes, and the inner graces of poesy and music of the soul."

"In fact, you use your soul instead of your mind or brain," Chick continued, and now Patty gave him an imploring glance, meant to beg him not to guy the Cosmic principles.

But Alla had no thought of Chick's insincerity. "That is it," she said. "We use our souls for everything, even physical processes. One of our geniuses is inventing a dance for Miss Fairfield. Appreciating her genius for dancing, he is making a masterpiece in which she can dance with her soul——"

"Put her whole sole in her dancing," said Chick, with enough emphasis to point his jest.

"Yes," went on Alla, unmoved, though Mr. Fairfield nearly choked as he watched her intent face, "just that. Unless one does use one's soul it becomes rusted and useless."

Her face was drawn with intensity, her lifted hand shook a long slender forefinger at Chick, and that urbane young man had just about all he could do to preserve his gravity.

But he went calmly on. "Do you know," he said, "I sometimes think my soul is a bit rusty."

"Very likely," said Sam Blaney, who didn't like to be long out of the conversation. "Suppose you join our coterie and get the rust removed. Nor am I joking, Mr. Channing. Many there be who laugh at our earnestness, but only because of their own ignorance."

"I dare say that is so," put in Fred Fairfield, in sincere tones; "that's why I'm specially interested in knowing just what you do to tinker up a rusty soul. Pardon my rude diction, but I am not aesthetic myself. However, I am deeply interested."

"I feel sure you are, Mr. Fairfield," and Alla gave him a soulful glance; "and though it is not easy I will try to give you a hint of our methods."

"Let me tell him, Alla," insisted Sam, and he waved her to silence with a gesture of his long, white hand. "You see, sir, it is not often we meet such a receptive nature as you kindly show, and I am but too glad to gratify your most justifiable curiosity and Interest."

"Me, too," cried Chick. "Pray don't leave me out. I truly want to know what will clean the rust off my soul."

Again Patty besought him by urgent glances to beware of offending her guests, but Chick shook his head, indicating there was no danger. Nor was there. Though Mr. Fairfield and Channing both were consumed with merriment at the idea of their rusty souls, the Blaneys were quite in earnest and proceeded to dilate on their favourite subjects.

"Once under the influence of our atmosphere and our beliefs," avowed Blaney, "your soul expands and flowers out like a star!"

"Oh, how beautiful!" breathed Chick, with such a rapt expression, that Patty had to put up her napkin quickly to hide her smile.

"Yes," said Alla, "my brother says wonderful things. His own soul is ineffably sweet."

"It must be!" and Chick looked at Blaney with an adoring gaze that nearly sent Nan into convulsions.

Patty was scared, for if Chick kept this up the Blaneys must realise his intent and would be mortally offended.

"How near Christmas is getting," she interrupted, blithely, determined to change the subject. "Have you all your gifts ready, Alla?"

"Patty," said Chick, reprovingly, "how can you introduce commonplace subjects just now? I'm learning to remove rust stains from my dingy old soul. By the way, how would it do to scour one's soul with the sands of time?"

"Beautiful!" cried Sam. "Wonderful! What imagery! I wish I had said that!"

"You may, as often as you like," granted Chick, politely. "I'll be proud if you'll accept it. Among unrusted souls, there should be no give and take. My thoughts are yours. I am honoured."

"You are a delight," said Alla, calmly, looking at Chick, who blushed at this unexpected compliment. "I have never met any one so quickly responsive, so immediately simpatica."

"Except me," cried Patty. "You said I was that. Simp—what—d'ye call it? Now there are two of us, Chick."

"We are all simpatica," said Nan, who, like Patty, began to fear Chick's chaff would yet offend the guests. And then, she determinedly led the conversation away from soulful matters and talked of current events and casual subjects that had no aesthetic significance.

But it was difficult to keep the Blaneys off their favourite themes and hard to quell the fun of the irrepressible Chick.

And so, Nan was rather relieved when at a surprisingly early hour the two aesthetes took their leave.

"Oh, Piccalilli blossoms!" cried Chick, when they were fairly out of hearing, "did you ever see anything like that! Where did you unearth them, Patty? The lady one, especially! Wow, but she's a five-reel scream!"

"Stop that, Chick; I think you're real mean! You made me enough trouble at the dinner table, and you needn't make fun of my friends behind their backs."

"But Patty, such backs! I mean, such friends! Oh, I didn't think I could restrain my laughter till they went away from here,—but I managed to do so. Souls! Rusty souls! Wowly-wow-wow!"

"Chick, stop it. I tell you, I won't have it!"

"I'll stop in a minute, Patty. Let me laugh a minute, or I'll explode. I say, Mrs. Fairfield, did you ever see anything like the lady's robe! I don't often notice costumes of the fair sex, but that was a hummer from Humville."

"Don't, Chick," said Nan, noticing Patty's quivering lip; "they're Patty's friends, and I'd rather you wouldn't ridicule them."

"I'd rather not myself, honest, Mrs. Fairfield, I'd rather not, but what can you do when they come running up, begging to be ridiculed?"

"They didn't," declared Patty. "Nobody would have thought of ridiculing them, Chick, if you hadn't. They talked a lot of wisdom that you couldn't assimilate, and you're envious of their superior minds, that's what ails you."

"Patty, Patty," said her father, laughing outright at this, "my dear child, are you really so infatuated with those people that you believe what you're saying?"

"Of course, I am. I don't expect you to understand them, Father, you're older, and belong to another generation."

"Good gracious, Patty," cried Nan, gasping, "do you think your father is too old to understand that drivel?"

"I do," said Patty, calmly, "and you are too, Nan. It takes the modern viewpoint, the young soulsight to apprehend the beauty of vision, the vast—vast——"

"Horizon," suggested Chick, kindly.

"Yes, horizon," said Patty; "how did you know, Chick?"

"Oh, horizons are always vast. Deeps are vasty. Nothing much else is vast, except once in a while a distance. So I felt safe in chancing the horizon."

"Oh, Chick, you are the funniest thing!" said Nan, who was shaking with laughter at Patty's chagrin. "But," and her voice suddenly became serious, "I won't stand for your nonsense. I range myself on Patty's side. These people were our guests. I forbid any slighting allusions to them. Their ways may not be our ways, but if they are Patty's friends they are my friends."

The warm, sincere ring of Nan's voice went to Patty's heart, and she smiled again.

"Good for you, you old trump!" she exclaimed, looking gratefully at Nan. "Now, Dad, you come over, and I can manage Chick, myself."

Patty was in gay good humour again, and she perched on the arm of her father's chair, as she proceeded to win him over.

"You know I can't resist your blandishments, my angel child," he said, as Patty caressed his handsome iron-grey hair, "but I must admit your Cosmickers have no message for me."

"That's just it," cried Patty, triumphantly. "I knew it! They have no message for you, because you don't understand their language, you're—Dad, I hate to say it,—but, you're too old!"

And with a kiss on his frowning forehead, Patty ran to the piano, and began to play "Silver Threads Among the Gold," to a rag-time improvisation of her own.

"Oh, Pattibelle," cried Chick, "what would your vast-horizoned friends say if they could hear you playing ragtime! I'm sure a lemon-coloured nocturne or a flaming fugue would be nearer their idea of melody."

"Play us a fox-trot, Nan," said Patty, jumping up, and in another minute, as Nan obligingly acquiesced, Patty and Chick were dancing gaily up and down the room.

"Forgive me, Patty," said Chick, as they danced out into the hall, "I wouldn't offend you or your friends for worlds, but they—well, they struck me funny, you see."

"They're not funny, Chick. They're the real thing. You can't see it, I know, and neither can Dad or Nan, but I do."

"All right, Patty. Go into it if you like. I don't believe it will hurt you. And like the measles, the harder you have it, the sooner you'll get over it, and you'll never have it but once. By the way, they invited me to their Christmas racket,—and I'm going!"



CHAPTER XIII

ELISE AND PATTY

"I think you're just as mean as you can be, Patty Fairfield! You won't come to my tree and you won't have the House Sale, and you won't do a thing anybody wants you to! I never saw such a disagreeable old thing as you are!"

"Why, Elise, you dear little, sweet, 'bused child! Am I as bad as all that? You do su'prise me! Well, well, I must mend my ways. I've always had a reputation for good nature, but it seems to be slipping awa' Jean, like snow in the thaw, Jean,—as the song book says. Now, my friend and pardner, here's my ultimatum. But smile on me, first, or I can't talk to you at all. You look like a thunder cloud,—a very pretty thunder cloud, to be sure,—but still, lowering and threatening. Brace up, idol of my heart,—shine out, little face, sunning over with raven black curls,—I seem to be poetically inclined, don't I?"

Elise laughed in spite of herself. The two girls had been discussing plans, and as Patty stuck to her determination to spend Christmas Eve at the Blaneys', Elise was angry, because she was to have her own Christmas tree that night, and, of course, wanted Patty with her.

They were in the Farringtons' library. It was nearly dusk, and Patty was just about to get her hat to go home, when they began the controversy afresh.

"I can't help laughing, because you're so silly, but I'm angry at you all the same," Elise averred, with a shake of her dark, curly head. "You're so wrapped up in the Blaneys and their idiotic old crowd, that you have no time or attention for your old friends."

"It does seem so," mused Patty; "of course, it might be, because the idiotic crowd are nice and pleasant to me, while my old friends, one of them, at least, is as cross as a bear with a bumped head."

"Well, you're enough to make me cross. Here I'm going to have a big Christmas tree, and a lovely Christmas party, and you won't come to it. That makes me cross, but to have you throw me over for those ridiculous Blaneys makes me crosser yet."

"You can't get much crosser, you're about at the limit."

"No, I'm not, either. It makes me still crosser that you won't have the House Sale."

"Oh, Elise, it's such a nuisance! Turn the whole place upside down and inside out, for a few dollars! Let's get the money by subscription. Everybody would be glad to give something for the girls' library."

"No, they won't. Everybody has been asked for money for charity all winter, and they're tired of it. But a novel sale would bring in a lot."

Patty and Elise were greatly interested in getting a library for the working girls' club, which they helped support. Patty was usually most enthusiastic and energetic in furnishing any project for helping this work along, and Elise was greatly surprised at her present unwillingness to hold a sale they had been considering.

"And it's only because you're crazy over that Cosmic Club that you can't bother with the things that used to interest you. Phil Van Reypen thinks they're a horrid lot, and so does Chick Channing, and I do, too."

"You forget that it was down at your house in Lakewood that I first met them."

"No, I don't; but that's no reason you should go over to them so entirely, and forsake all of your old set. I never liked the Blaneys; I only wanted you to meet them, to see how queer and eccentric they were. But I never supposed you'd join their ranks, and become so infatuated with Sam Blaney——"

"I'm not infatuated with Sam Blaney!"

"You are so! You think he's a genius and a poet and a little tin god on wheels!"

"Well, all right, Elise, then I do think so. And I've got a right to think so, if I want to. Now, listen, and stop your foolishness. I said I'd give you my decision, and this is it. I'll come round here Christmas Eve after the party at the Blaneys'. I've got to go to that, for I'm going to dance, and I'm going to be in some 'Living Pictures,' but I can get away by eleven, or soon after, and that will be in time for your dance."