"Well, half a loaf is better than no bread,—I'll have the tree late, then. After you get here."

"Oh, no, don't put off your tree! I might not be able to get here much before midnight."

"Yes, you will. You've promised me for eleven, and you always keep a promise,—I know that. I'll send for you, and you must come."

"All right, I will. Truly, Elise, I want to be at the tree here,—but I couldn't help the two engagements clashing. Now, also, to show you that I haven't lost interest in the Girls' Club, I'll have the House Sale after the holidays are over."

"Oh, will you, Patty? You're a dear old thing!"

"And amn't I mean and horrid, and a deserter?"

"Well, you're a bit of a deserter, and I suppose you'll rush off to a Cosmic meeting the night of the Sale, and leave me to run it!"

"You're mean, now, Elise. You know I wouldn't do such a thing,—unless——"

"Unless what?"

"Unless it happened to be on a night of a special meeting of the Cosmic Centre. In that case, I'd have to go for a little while."

Just then Van Reypen came in.

"You here, Patty?" he said. "I've been looking you up. How are you, Elise? What are you girls confabbing about?"

"I'm scolding Patty for her desertion of us and her infatuation for those Blaney people."

"Confound those Blaney people! I wish they were in Timbuctoo!"

"Why, Philip, how unkind!" and Patty smiled at him in an exasperating way. "You know you admire Sam Blaney immensely,—only you're jealous of him."

"Admire him! Jealous of him!" Van Reypen fairly glowered with indignation. "That nincompoop! with long hair and a green neck-tie! He's a half-witted farmer!"

Patty's laugh rang out. "Oh, Phil," she cried, "don't be a silly, yourself! His worst enemy couldn't call Sam a farmer! And I can assure you, he's far from half-witted."

"Yes, far less than half," growled Van Reypen. "Oh, Patty, drop 'em, cut 'em out, give 'em the go-by, won't you?"

"Thank you, no. I still reserve the right to choose my friends, and I confess to a liking for those who are kindly disposed toward me."

"Oh, I'm kindly disposed toward you, very much so," declared Phil, "but your new friends are not included in my kindly disposition."

"So I gathered," and Patty laughed again. "But, do you know, they feel that they can struggle along without your admiration and affection."

"Don't be sarcastic, Patty," and Van Reypen smiled at the haughty little face turned toward his.

"No, I won't, Phil. I hate it. And I'm sorry I let myself go like that. But you do stir me up,—you and Elise."

"Glad of it," said Elise, "you ought to be stirred up once in a while. But don't go, Patty. Here comes Daisy,—and, well, if it isn't Bill Farnsworth with her! I didn't know he was in town. He's in and out so much, it's hard to keep track of him. Come in, Daisy, take off your furs. Glad to see you, Bill. Here's Patty Fairfield."

"So I see," laughed Farnsworth, as he held out his hand. "Going? Why go yet? Hello, Van Reypen."

"Hello, Bill. Thought you were on your way to or from Arizona. How do you know where to vote, anyhow?"

"Guess at it. But I'm not going to live on the road so much as formerly. I've cleaned things up a bit, and shall sort of settle in New York from now on."

"Good! Glad to give you the freedom of our city. And you, Daisy? Are you going to live East, also?"

"Haven't decided yet," and Daisy glanced coquettishly at Farnsworth. "Maybe so."

"Don't you go yet, Patty," begged Elise. "Stay a while longer, and we'll have tea,—chocolate, too, which I know you like better."

"'Course I'll stay," said Patty; "your chocolate is always the best ever. Order it up. What beautiful violets, Daisy."

"Yes, Bill bought them for me as we passed a florist's shop. I adore violets."

"What girl doesn't?" laughed Patty. "At least she adores having them bought for her."

"I don't," said Elise. "I'd rather have one rose than all the violets that ever bloomed in the spring, tra-la."

"What's your favourite flower, Patty?" asked Farnsworth.

"Sunflowers, but nobody ever sends me any. I just get old orchids and things."

"Poor kiddy! I wish I could get a sunflower or two for you. But I fancy, at this season of the year, they're about as scarce as blue roses."

"'It is but an idle quest, Roses red and white are best,'"

sang Patty, with a smile at Big Bill.

"Do you know that?" he asked, interestedly. "I never heard you sing it."

"Oh, it's one of her best songs," cried Elise; "sing it now, Patty,—you'll have time before the chocolate comes."

"Too much bother," said Patty; "we'd have to go in the music room and all. I'll sing it for you some other time, Little Billee."

"All right," he responded, carelessly, and again Patty felt a slight chagrin that he cared so little about the matter.

Other people drifted in, as the young folks were apt to do at tea time, and then the chocolate arrived, and Patty found herself provided with a welcome cup of her favourite beverage.

It was Farnsworth who brought it to her, and he deliberately took a seat at her side, a seat that Van Reypen had just vacated.

"You can't sit there," said Patty, quickly; "Phil will be back in a minute."

"Will he?" said Big Bill, as he settled himself comfortably in the chair. "Do you think he can put me out?"

"Not unless you want him to," and Patty smiled at the big man, who looked so strong and powerful.

"Somehow, I don't. I like it here."

"Why?"

"Because I like to look at you. You're looking uncommonly well today. If I were to guess, I should say you have been having a rumpus with somebody."

"What is a rumpus?" inquired Patty, looking innocent.

"A rumpus, my child, is a tiff, a squabble, a set-to, a racket, a general scrimmage."

"I haven't exactly had those things, but, well, I may say I have been drawn into a somewhat spirited discussion."

"Ah, I thought so."

"How did you know? I mean, why did you think so?"

"By your heightened colour and your generally wrought-up condition. Why, your heart isn't beating normally yet."

Patty looked up at him, indignantly, but his blue eyes were very kind and his smile gentle and even concerned.

"What was it about, Patty? Who has been tormenting you?"

"Nobody tormented me, exactly, but they criticise me and they say mean things about my friends——"

"Never let them do that! Your friends must be sacred to you,—I mean from adverse criticism of others."

"That's what I think, Little Billee. What shall I do, when everybody ridicules them and calls them names?"

"Just what I am sure you did do. Flare up like a wrathy kitten and helplessly paw the air."

"Of course that's what I did," and Patty laughed at the graphic description, "but it didn't seem to do much good."

"Of course it didn't. Standing up for one's friends rarely does much good, except to satisfy one's own sense of loyalty."

"Why, what do you mean? Why doesn't it do any good to defend our friends?"

"Because if they need our defence, they're probably at fault."

"But they weren't in this case. It was the Blaneys,—do you know them?"

"Those mercerised personages I met at Mona's wedding? I haven't the pleasure of their intimate acquaintance, and something tells me I never shall have."

"You mean you don't want it!"

"Mind reader! Patty, you're positively clairvoyant!"

"Now, Little Billee, don't you go back on me, too."

"Go back on you? Never! While this machine is to me! Why, Patty, I'd defend you to the last ditch, and then fill in the ditch!"

"Be serious, Billee. You don't know those people, but can't you take my word for it that they're splendidly worth while? They're geniuses, and artists."

"Patty, I'd take your word for anything you know about. But, for instance, I couldn't take your word that there are blue roses."

"But there are! That's just what the Cosmic Centre people are,—they're blue roses! I never thought of it before, but they are."

"Then beware of them. Blue roses are freaks——"

"Yes, I know it. But there are worse things in this world than freaks. I'd rather a man would be a freak than a—a mud turtle!"

"Are many of your friends mud turtles?"

"Yes, they are. They stick their heads in the sand——"

"Look out for your Natural History! You're thinking of ostriches."

"All the same. Now, Sam Blaney——"

"Patty! You don't mean to say that chap is Sam Blaney! I thought he looked a bit familiar! Sam! old Sam Blaney! Well!"

"What's the matter, Billee? Do you know him?"

"I used to, when we were boys. Fifteen or more years ago. I doubt if he'd even remember my name. We went to a public school together. Sam Blaney! Well!"

"You exasperating thing! Don't sit there saying 'Well!' and 'Sam Blaney!' but tell me what you know of him."

"Nothing, child, nothing. I haven't seen or heard of him for—since we were fourteen years old or so. Where did you pick him up?"

Patty told of her meeting the Blaneys at Lakewood, and of her continuing their acquaintance in New York. But suddenly Farnsworth seemed to lose interest in her story.

"Never mind the Blaneys," he said. "I want to talk to you. What do you think, my girl? I've won out in that matter of business I've been at so long."

"Have you? I'm very glad. I don't know what it was all about, Little Billee, but if you've succeeded in what you wanted to do, I'm very glad."

"Yes, I have. And it means,—it means, Patty, that I shall live in New York now, all the time."

"Yes?"

"Yes. And it means, too, if this interests you, that I'm a rich man,—a very rich man."

"That's nice, Bill; I congratulate you."

"Oh, thank you." Farnsworth's voice had grown suddenly cold, and the eager light had faded from his blue eyes. He looked at Patty, and quickly looked away.

"I thought you might care," he said.

A strange thought came to Patty. Could he possibly mean that since he was a rich man, she would smile on his suit? Could he think that she would accept his attentions more gladly because of his newly acquired wealth? The idea made her furiously angry. If Farnsworth thought her that mercenary—if he deemed her so utterly sordid—well, her respect for him was decidedly lessened!



CHAPTER XIV

PATTY'S DANCE

The Christmas Eve party at the Blaneys' was in full swing. A man at the piano was performing a monologue that was partly spoken, partly sung. It was cleverly done, and the audience showed its appreciation by outspoken comments.

"A little lame on that top note, old chap. S'pose you try it over—ah, that's better!"

Patty sat next to Sam Blaney. Chick had expected to come, but Elise had persuaded him to attend her party instead. This rather pleased Patty, for she feared Chick's gay banter and she knew he didn't care for the Cosmic Centre Club and their ways.

"You are so wonderful!" Blaney was saying, as he looked at her. "I never cared for Christmas before."

Patty's gown was a long, sweeping robe of poinsettia red velvet. It would not have been becoming to most blondes, but Patty's fairness triumphed over all colour schemes. She wore a girdle of red velvet poinsettia blossoms and a wreath of small ones encircled her head.

"You are so beautiful——" Blaney's soft, purring voice went on.

"Don't make me blush," Patty laughed back. "Pink cheeks spoil the effect of this red gown. I must stay pale to suit it."

"Pink or pale, you are perfect! I adore you."

Embarrassed by the fervour of his tones, Patty turned to talk to the man at her other side. But he was engrossed in conversation with an aesthetic damsel, and so she gaily changed the subject.

"How splendid the rooms look," she said, glancing about. "That grove of green trees is wonderfully picturesque."

"That's where you're to dance," Blaney returned. "I looked after it myself. It's carpeted with pine needles, but they're soft, fresh ones, not dried ones. I'm sure they'll be comfy."

"I dunno about dancing on 'em barefoot. I believe I'll wear sandals, after all."

"Oh, no, you mustn't. Grantham has designed every detail so exquisitely, don't fail to follow his directions accurately. Your number will be the best of all. That's why we put it last. It will be an enormous hit,—a revelation!"

"I hope they will like it. I've never danced before these people before. I've pleased ordinary audiences, but the Cosmos are so critical—it would break my heart if they didn't approve."

"Of course they'll approve! They'll go crazy over you. But you must throw yourself utterly into the spirit of it. We know at once if you're afraid or over-reserved. Abandon must be your keynote. Real interpretation of Grantham's wonderful ideas."

"They are wonderful," agreed Patty. "Mr. Grantham is a true poet. He sees Nature at her best and with an intuition almost divine."

Her blue eyes shone with earnestness and Blaney gazed at her in adoration.

"You perfect thing!" he murmured; "you have found your right environment among us. You are wasted on the ordinary, unthinking masses of society. You are Nature's child. What a pity you must live a conventional life. Patty, can't you break loose? Can't you give up your present hampering existence and come and throw in your lot with ours? Live here. Alla would warmly welcome you as a sister——"

"And will you be my brother, Sam? I've never had a brother."

"No, I refuse to be your brother! I'll be—well, say, your guardian. How'd you like to be my ward?"

"I didn't know girls ever were wards except in old-fashioned novels. And there, they always marry their guardians."

"Well?"

"Oh, my gracious, is this a proposal!" Something in Blaney's tone had warned Patty that light banter was the best course, and she rattled on; "if so, postpone it, please. I really must go very soon and dress for my dance."

"I know it. I will wait for a more fitting time and place. You ought to be wooed in a sylvan glade——"

"Oh, I'd rather a bosky dell! I've always been crazy to be wooed in a bosky dell. A leafy bower is the nearest I've come to it."

"Who wooed you there?"

"Can't remember exactly. But it was the third from the last,—I think."

"You little witch! Do you know how fascinating you are?"

"No; tell me." Patty was in mischievous mood, and looked up demurely at Blaney.

"By Jove, I will! As soon as I can get you alone. Run away, now, and do your dance. And, listen; I command you to think of me at every step."

"Can't promise that. It's all I can do to remember Mr. Grantham's steps; they're fearfully complicated. So—you think of me,—instead."

With a saucy smile at Blaney, Patty slipped from her place, and went around to the dressing room.

"Oh, here you are," cried Alla, who was waiting to help her dress; "I was just going to send for you. Now, off with your frock."

Some fifteen or twenty minutes later, the audience sat in breathless anticipation of Patty's dance.

Howard Grantham was a great artist, and never before had he been known to devise a dance for any one. But he had recognised Patty's skill in the art, and had requested that he be allowed to design a picture dance for her. The result was to be a surprise to all present, except the Blaneys, for rehearsals had been jealously kept secret.

The lights in the room were low, and the stage, which was a small grove of evergreen trees, was dark. Then, through the trees, appeared slowly a faint, pink light, as of breaking dawn. Some unseen violins breathed almost inaudible strains of Spring-song music.

Two trees at the back were slowly drawn apart as two small, white hands appeared among their branches. In the opening showed Patty's lovely face, eyes upturned, scarlet lips parted in a smile that was a joyous expression of youth and gladness. Still further she drew apart the lissome trees, and stepped through, a vision of spring itself. Clouds of chiffon swirled about her, softest dawn-rose in colour, changing of tints of heliotrope and primrose, as she swayed in graceful, pliant rhythm. Her slim white arms waved slowly, as the hidden melodies came faintly from the depth of the grove. Her pretty bare feet shone whitely among the soft pine needles and the steps of her dance were the very essence of poetry itself.

The audience watched in silence, spellbound by the fair sight. Slowly she moved and swayed; then, as the music quickened, her steps grew more animated, her smile more bright, the lights were stronger, and the dance ended in a whirl of graceful pirouette and tossing, fluttering draperies. With no pause or intermission, Patty was changed to an impersonation of summer. It was done by the lights. Her robe was really of white chiffon, and as pink lights had made it appear in rosy tints, so now a deep yellow light gave the effect of sultry sunlight.

The music, and likewise the rhythm of the dance, were soft and languorous as a July noon. Limply hung the draperies, slowly waved the graceful arms, and at the end, Patty sank slowly, gently, down on a mound beneath the trees, and, her head pillowed on her arm, closed her eyes, while the violin notes faded to silence.

Knowing better than to applaud her, the spectators watched in silence. A moment, and then a clear bugle-like note sounded. Patty started up, passed her hand across her brow, opened her eyes, smiled slowly, and more and more merrily, then sprang up, and as the lights made her costume appear to be of the gold and russet red of autumn, she burst into a wild woodland dance such as a veritable Dryad might have performed. The music was rich, triumphant, and the whole atmosphere was filled with the glory of the crown of the year. By a clever contrivance, autumn leaves came fluttering down and Patty's bare feet nestled in them with childish enjoyment. Her smile was roguish, she was a witch, an eerie thing. The orange light glowed and shone, and at the height of a tumultuous burst of music, there was a sudden pause. Patty stopped still, her smile faded, and the colours changed from autumn glows to a cold wintry blue. Her gown became white, with blue shadows, the music was sharp and frosty. Patty danced with staccato steps, with little shivers of cold. The ground now appeared to be covered with frost, and her feet recoiled as they touched it. The music whistled like winter blasts. A fine snow seemed to fall, the blue shadows faded, all was white, and Patty, whirling, faster and faster, was like a white fairy, white robes, white arms, white feet, and a sparkling white veil, that grew more and more voluminous as she shook out its hidden folds. Faster she went, whirling, twirling, swirling, like a leaf in the wind, until, completely swathed in the great white veil, she vanished between the parted trees at the back of the stage.

The music ceased, the lights blazed up, the dance was over. A moment passed as the audience came back to earth, and then the applause was tremendous. Hands clapped, sonorously, voices shouted "Bravo!" and other words of plaudit; and "Encore!" was repeatedly demanded.

But Mr. Grantham had forbidden Patty to return to the stage, even to acknowledge the laudation. He believed in the better effect of an unspoiled remembrance of her last tableau.

So, shaking with excitement and weariness, Patty sank into a chair in the dressing-room, and Alla began to draw on her stockings.

"You must rest quietly, dear Patricia, for a half hour at least," she said, solicitously. "You are quite exhausted. But it was wonderful! I have never seen anything so beautiful! You will be feted and praised to death. I've sent for a cup of coffee, to brace you up."

"Oh, please not, Alla!" cried Patty, knowing the kind of coffee it would be. "I don't want it, truly. Just give me a glass of water, and let me sit still a minute without seeing anybody. It is exhausting to dance like that."

"Yes, dear, it is. Now rest quietly, and I'll keep everybody away, until you feel like seeing them."

But Patty was keyed up with the excitement of the occasion and unwilling to rest for very long. So, with Alla's help, she was soon rearrayed in her red velvet and ready to return to the Studio.

"I'm ashamed of myself," she said to Alla, "but I'm so vain, I really want to go out there and hear people tell me that I did well!"

"That isn't vanity," Alla returned. "That's proper pride. If any one can do a thing as well as you did that dance, it would be idiocy not to enjoy hearing appreciative praise."

"Do you think so?" and Patty looked relieved; "I don't want to be conceited, but I'm glad if I did well."

"Wait till you hear what Sam says! He's wild about you, anyway, and after that dance he'll be crazier over you than ever."

Patty smiled, happily, and with a final adjustment of her freshly done-up hair, she declared herself ready to return to the party.

As hers had been the last number on the program, she was not surprised to find the audience standing about in groups, or picturesquely posed on divans, and her appearance was the signal for a new hubbub of excitement.

But before she could hear a definite word from any one, a tall, powerful figure came striding up to her, and big Bill Farnsworth's unsmiling blue eyes looked straight into her own merry ones.

Her merriment died away before the sternness of his expression.

"Get your wraps, Patty," he said, in low but distinct tones. "At once."

"What for?" and Patty stared at him in amazement. "What has happened?"

But she had no fear that any untoward accident had befallen, for Farnsworth showed no sympathy or gentleness in his face, merely a determined authority.

"Go at once," Farnsworth repeated, "and get your cloak."

"I won't do it," she replied, giving him an angry glance. "I don't want to go home; why should I get my cloak?"

"Then I'll take you without it," and picking her up in his arms, Big Bill strode through the throng of people, with as little embarrassment as if he were walking along the street. Many turned to look at him with curiosity, some smiled, but the Cosmic souls rarely allowed themselves to be surprised at anything, however peculiar.

As they passed Sam Blaney, Patty noticed that he stood, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, and a strange expression on his face,—half defiant, half afraid.

Farnsworth carried Patty down the stairs and out of the house, and placed her with care, but a bit unceremoniously, in the tonneau of a waiting motor-car. He jumped in beside her, and pulled the lap robe over her. The car started at once, and was well under way by the time Patty found voice enough to express her indignation.

"You—perfectly—horrid—old—thing!" she gasped, almost crying from sheer surprise and anger.

"Yes?" he said, and she detected laughter in his tone, which made her angrier than ever.

"I hate you!" she burst forth.

"Do you, dear?" and Farnsworth rearranged the rug to protect her more fully.

There was such gentleness in his touch, such tenderness in his voice, that Patty's anger melted to plain curiosity.

"Why did you do that?" she demanded. "Why did you bring me away in such—such caveman fashion?"

Farnsworth smiled. "It was a caveman performance, wasn't it? But you wouldn't come willingly."

"Of course I wouldn't! Why should I?"

"For three very good reasons." Farnsworth spoke, gravely. "First, you were in a place where you didn't belong. I couldn't let you remain there."

"It is not your business to say where I belong!"

"I wouldn't want any one I care for to be in that place."

"Not even Daisy Dow?"

"Certainly not Daisy."

"Oh, not Daisy—of all people! Oh, certainly not!"

"Next, you were doing what you ought not to do."

"What!"

"Yes, you were. You danced barefoot before those—those unspeakable fools!"

Patty felt uncomfortable. She hadn't herself exactly liked the idea of that barefoot dance, and hadn't told any one she was going to do it. She had insisted to Mr. Grantham that she preferred to wear sandals. But he had talked so beautifully of the naturalness of the whole conception, the exquisite appropriateness of unshod feet, and the necessity of her carrying out his design as a whole, that she had yielded.

And now that Bill Farnsworth spoke of it in this rude way, it seemed to divest the dance of all its aesthetic beauty, and make of it a horrid, silly performance.

She tried to speak, tried to reply in indignant or angry vein, but she couldn't articulate at all. A lump came into her throat, big tears formed in her eyes, and a sob that she tried in vain to suppress shook her whole body.

She felt Farnsworth's arm go protectingly round her. Not caressingly, but with an assurance of care and assumption of responsibility.

Then, he pulled off the glove from his other hand with his teeth, and after a dive into a pocket, produced and shook out a big, white, comforting square of soft linen, and Patty gratefully buried her face in it.



CHAPTER XV

THE CHRISTMAS PARTY

"Much obliged, Billee," Patty said, at last, as she handed back a somewhat damp handkerchief, and Farnsworth stuffed it in his pocket. "Where are you taking me?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Back where you brought me from, please."

"Well, you can't go there. Will you go home, or to the Farringtons'?"

A quick side glance at the stern face beside her showed Patty that there was no chance of her going back to the Blaneys', so she said, with great dignity, "I'll go to Elise's, then. But I want you to understand that I resent your treatment, that I detest you for using your strength to interfere with my pleasure, and that I absolutely sever all friendship or acquaintance with you, now and forever!"

"Bad as that? Well, well, you must be annoyed."

"Annoyed! annoyed! why, I——"

"There now, Posy Face, quiet down a bit, we're almost at the house. You don't want to go in looking like a—a weeping willow! You'll spoil the effect of that red frock, if your eyes are red, too, and your cheeks all tear-stained. Here, have a fresh handkerchief."

Farnsworth produced another big white linen affair, and unfolding it with a flourish, held it up to Patty's face.

"I never saw anybody have so many clean handkerchiefs! Do you carry a dozen?"

"Always glad to help ladies in distress. Are you often so lachrymose?"

"Oh Little Billee, don't be so everlasting good-natured, when I feel so cross. Why did you bring me away from that place, when I was having such a good time? And the best part was just about to begin!"

"Now, Patty, listen—while the listening's good. Here we are at Elise's; I want you to go in, gay and smiling, and not cause any curious comment. So let the Blaney discussion wait, and I'll tell you all about it, first chance we get. You don't want everybody to know that you left the Cosmic Club a—er,—a bit unintentionally, do you? Then, forget it, for the moment, and put on a Merry Christmas manner. You'll be glad you did, afterward."

Farnsworth's talk was sound sense, and Patty knew it. She already felt a little relieved at getting away from Sam Blaney and back with her own crowd. So she shook off her petulance and her anger, and when she entered the Farringtons' drawing-room, no smile that greeted her was brighter than her own in response.

"Why, Pattibelle," cried Chick Channing, "welcome home! I feared we had lost you to the high-geared Highbrows. Merry Christmas and many of 'em! Come sit by my side, little darling——"

"No, come sit by us," insisted Elise, from the other side of the room. "You're a dear, to come so early, Patty. How did it happen?"

"Oh, I just couldn't stay there any longer," said Patty, very truthfully. "Am I in time for the Christmas tree?"

"Indeed you are," returned Elise; "also for the feast and the dancing and the Mistletoe Bough."

"Good!" and Patty joined the laughing group, of which she immediately became the centre. Her red velvet gown, though unusual, was not so eccentric as to appear peculiar in this setting, and the girls began to express admiration.

Nor were the men unappreciative.

"A real Yuletide frock, Patty," said Phil Van Reypen, approvingly. "Didn't know you could wear that colour."

"I couldn't," laughed Patty, "in daylight. But the electrics even things up, somehow, and my complexion takes on a harmonising tint of brick red."

"Because you are a brick," put in Channing. "Did you get many Christmas gifts, Patty? Did you get my small votive offering?"

"Did I get many gifts! My boudoir looks like a World's Fair! Yes, Chick, I got your present. Let me see, it was the padded calf Emerson, wasn't it?"

"It was not! If you got that, it probably came from your Cosmetic friends. I sent you—oh, if you didn't even open it——"

"But I did, Chickadee. It was a heavenly jade hatpin, an exquisite bit of carving. I just adore it, and I shall never wear any other. So cheer up, life is still worth living!"

Patty was in high spirits. It was partly reaction from the artificial atmosphere of the Studio, and partly her real enjoyment of the festive occasion of Elise's Christmas party. The Farrington parties were always on an elaborate scale, and this was no exception.

"I wish Roger and Mona were here," Patty said, "I sort of miss them."

"So do I," chimed in Daisy Dow. "But the honeymoon shining on the sands at Palm Beach still holds them under its influence."

"They must be happy," observed Kit Cameron. "Think of it! Christmas and a bridal trip and the Sunny South,—all at once."

"It is a large order," laughed Patty. "But Mona likes a lot of things at once. That girl has no sense of moderation. When are they coming home, Elise?"

"Don't know. No signs of it yet. Come on, people, now we're going to have the tree!"

The orchestra played a march, and the crowd trooped into the great hall known as the Casino. There awaited them a resplendent Christmas tree, glittering with frosted decorations and glowing with electric lights.

Van Reypen had quietly taken possession of Patty as a partner, and he guided her to a pleasant seat where she could see all the entertainment. For great doings had been arranged to please the guests, and a short program was carried out.

Waits sang old English carols, mummers cut up queer antics, servitors brought in the Boar's Head and Wassail Bowl, and finally it was announced that all present would participate in the old-fashioned dance of Sir Roger de Coverley.

Patty enjoyed it all. She loved to see this sort of thing when it was well done, and in this instance every detail was faultless. Van Reypen quite shared her enthusiasm, and was vigorously clapping his hands over some jest of a mummer, when Big Bill Farnsworth came up to Patty, made a low bow, his hand on his breast, and whisked her off to the dance before she fairly realised what had happened.

"Why—I can't!" she exclaimed, as she found herself standing opposite her smiling partner. "I'm—I'm engaged to Philip!"

"I know you are," returned Farnsworth, gravely, "but you can give me one dance."

Patty blushed, furiously. "Oh, I didn't mean engaged that way," she said, "I meant engaged for this dance."

"No," corrected Farnsworth, still smiling, "you did mean you are engaged to him that way, but not for this dance."

"Well, he hadn't actually asked me," said Patty, doubtfully, "but I know he took it for granted——"

"It isn't wise to take too much for granted—there! see, he has just discovered your absence."

Sure enough, Van Reypen, who had been engrossed with the mummer's chaff, turned back to where Patty had sat, and his look of amazement at her absence was funny to see.

Glancing about, he saw her standing in line, opposite Farnsworth. At first, he looked wrathful, then accepting his position with a good grace, he smiled at them both.

"Little deserter!" he said to her, as he sauntered past her, in search of another partner.

"Deserter, yourself!" she returned. "You completely forgot my existence!"

"I didn't, but I am duly punished for seeming to do so. But I claim you for a supper partner, so make a memorandum of that!"

Patty smiled an assent, and the dance began.

"Don't you like this better than that smoky, incense-smelly atmosphere of the Studio?" Farnsworth said to Patty, as they walked through the stately figures of the dance.

"This is a home of wealth and grandeur," said Patty, "but wealth and grandeur are not the most desirable things in the world."

"What are?"

"Brains and——"

"Yes, brains and breeding. But your high-browed, lowbred——"

"Billee, I've stood a lot from you tonight; now, I refuse to stand any more. You will please stop saying things that you know offend me."

"Forgive me, Patty, I forgot myself."

"Then it's forgive and forget between us. I'll do the forgiving because you did the forgetting. But I've forgiven you all I'm going to. So don't make any more necessary."

"I'll try not to," and then the subject of the earlier evening was not mentioned again.

The dance concluded, Farnsworth stood for a moment, still holding Patty's hand after their last sweeping curtsey, and he said, "Will you be my supper partner, too? Please do."

"I can't," and Patty laughed up at him. "I'm really engaged to Phil."

"Oh, are you, Patty?" cried Daisy, who was just passing, with Kit Cameron. "I said you'd announce it tonight! What fun! But why are you telling Big Bill all by himself first? You ought to tell all the crowd at once. I'll do it for you. Come on, Kit, let's spread the news! We've Patty's own word for it."

The two ran off, laughing, and Patty looked a bit dismayed. "Kit's such a scamp," she said, ruefully, "he'll tell that all over the room——"

"Isn't it true?"

"Would you care if it were?"

"I care for anything that concerns you or your happiness."

"Or any one else or any one else's happiness! Oh, I know you, Bill Farnsworth, you want everybody to be happy."

"Of course I do!" and the big man laughed, heartily. "Is that a crime? But most of all I care to have one little foolish, petulant Blossom-girl happy."

"Well, then, why don't you make her so? Why aren't you kind and nice to her, instead of being horrid about her friends and her dancing, and acting like a great Lord of something-or-other, frowning on her innocent amusements!"

"Oh, Patty, what an arraignment! But never mind that. May I take you to the supper room?"

"Oh, here you are, Light of my eyes!" and Van Reypen came up and offered his arm.

With a smile of farewell to Farnsworth, Patty accepted Philip's escort and walked off.

"What's this report Cameron and Daisy Dow are spreading?" asked Van Reypen, looking at her, quizzically, but with a glance full of meaning. "They say you and I are to announce our engagement tonight. I'm so delighted to hear it, I can't see straight; but I want your corroboration of the rumour. Oh, Patty, darling girl, you do mean it, don't you?"

Philip had drawn her to one side, away from the crowd, and in a palm-screened alcove, he stood beside her, his handsome face glowing with eagerness, as he anticipated yet feared her reply.

"Nonsense, Phil. It happened that I told Bill Farnsworth I was engaged to you for supper, and Daisy overheard, and she and Kit tried to tease me, that's all."

"But since it happened that way,—since the report is current,—don't you think,—doesn't it seem as if this would be an awfully good chance to make it a true report?"

"No, sir! A girl can't get engaged all in a minute, and en route to a supper room, at that! Besides, I'm hungry."

"You can't put me off that way! You may think to be hungry interferes with romance. Not a bit of it! You say you'll marry me, and I'll get you all the supper you want, and, incidentally, eat a good square meal myself. There!"

Van Reypen had great charm. His great dark eyes were fixed on Patty, and in their depths she could read his big, true love, unembarrassed by the place or the occasion. He knew only that he was pleading with the girl he loved, suing for his life's happiness, a happiness that lay in the little rosy palm of Patty Fairfield's hand.

"Darling," he whispered, taking the little hand in both his own, "Patty, darling, do say yes, at last. Don't keep me in suspense. Don't bother about learning to love me, and all that. Just come to me,—tell me you will,—and I know you'll love me. You can't help it, dear, when I love you so. Why, Patty, I've got to have you! You don't know how I want you. You've so twined yourself into my heart that you seem part of me already. Dear, dear little girl, my love, my sweetheart——"

Philip's arm went round Patty's shoulder, and he drew her to him.

"Phil!" cried Patty, starting back. "Don't, please don't."

"I won't, dear,—I won't call you mine until you say I may,—but, oh, Patty!"

His voice was so full of deep feeling, his eves pleaded so longingly for her consent, that Patty's heart went out to him. She was sorry for him, and she honestly longed to say the word that would give him joy and gladness forever. But that very feeling taught her the truth about herself. She knew, in one sudden, illuminating flash, that she didn't and couldn't love Philip Van Reypen in the way she was sure she wanted to love and would love the man she should marry.

Nor could she speak lightly or carelessly to him now. It was a crisis. A good, true man had offered her his love and his life. It was not a slight thing to be tossed aside as a trifle. If she accepted it, well; but if not, she must tell him so kindly, and must tell him why. And Patty didn't know why. In fact, she wasn't sure she didn't want Phil, after all. He was very big-hearted,—very splendid.

"What are you thinking of, girlie?" he asked, gently, as he watched the changing expressions on her face.

"I'm trying to be honest with myself, Phil. I'm trying to think out why it is that I don't say yes to you at once. I suppose you think me heartless and cold to think it out like this, but, I'm in earnest——"

"So am I, dear, very much in earnest. And, I think, my own Heart's Dearest, that you're nearer to loving me now than you've ever been. Nearer saying yes than ever before. And, so, I'm not going to let you answer now. This isn't the time or place. Somebody may come looking for us at any moment. You have given me hope, Patty—unconsciously, you've given me hope for the first time. I'll be satisfied with that, for now. And, I'll see you soon, in your own home, to hear the rest from your own lips. Oh, Patty, how can I wait? I can't! Say yes, now,—say it, Patty!"

"No, Phil," and Patty gave him a lovely smile, while her blue eyes shone like stars; "no, you were right, before. Not here—not now. Come, let us join the others,—and you come to see me at home—soon."

"Your own sweet way is mine, Patty," and Van Reypen kissed the trembling little hand he held. "Now, brace up, dear; remember, they'll all be watching us, even chaffing us. Can you meet them?"

"Yes," and Patty assumed her old mischievous smile. "Carry things off with a high hand, Phil. That's the way to meet them."

Together they sauntered to the supper room, and, as they had expected, were met by a storm of chaff.

"Where have you two been? 'Fess up, now!"

"Flirting," replied Van Reypen, coolly. "Haven't we, Patty?"

"Yes, if you call such a mild affair worthy of the name," and Patty's nonchalant air and unembarrassed manner gave no further inducement for teasing.

"Let's sit here," Phil went on, selecting seats at a small table, with some casual friends, and then his resources of conversation and Patty's gay chatter did away with all chance for personal allusions.



CHAPTER XVI

A STOLEN POEM

After supper there was dancing, and Patty was besieged by would-be partners. Good-naturedly she fractioned her dances, and even divided the short intermissions between them. Everybody wanted to dance with the smiling little person in red velvet, and her pretty gaiety salved the wounds of those whom she was obliged to refuse.

At last, Farnsworth came to her, and his determined expression told Patty he was about to lay down the law.

Sure enough, he took her hand in his, drew it through his arm, and led her out of the dancing room.

"Without even a 'by your leave?'" and Patty looked up at him, inquiringly.

"Without it or with it. But you can't dance any more tonight. You're so tired you can scarcely stand up now."

"That's so, now that you speak of it. But I hadn't realised it."

"Of course you hadn't. You're crazy, when it comes to dancing!"

"Well, you're not. You haven't danced with me once tonight, except that old country dance."

"Did you want me to? Were you lacking for partners?"

"Me! Lacking for partners! Am I, usually?"

"Oh, Patty, what a little Vanity Box you are! No, you never lack for partners or attention or flattery,—all you ever lack is a little common sense."

"Why-ee! Little Billee! I've always prided myself on my common sense. But where are you taking me?"

"Not very far. There's a comfy window-seat in this little reception room, where you can rest a bit, then I'm going to send you home."

"Oh, you are! And who constituted you my Major Domo, or Commanding Officer, or Father Superior, or whoever it is that orders people about?"

"I don't order; I persuade, or induce, by power of my irresistible charm." Farnsworth's blue eyes twinkled, and Patty laughed outright, as she said, "Yes, I noticed the irresistibility as I left the Blaneys' tonight!"

"And, that's the very subject I was about to discourse upon,—the Blaneys, I mean. But first, let me make you comfy."

Farnsworth led Patty to the spacious, cushioned window-seat, and piled soft pillows at her back, and tucked an ottoman beneath her feet, and then sat down beside her. The little room was deserted by the dancers, and though some of the guests strolled in and out, occasionally, there was ample opportunity for real conversation.

"It's this way, Patty," Farnsworth began. "I know Sam Blaney, and you don't. I knew him years ago, and though I've not seen him of late years, he's the same old two and sixpence."

"And a very attractive two and sixpence," declared Patty, an obstinate expression coming into her face. "You see, Little Billee, either you like wise, brainy people, or you don't. I do."

"I know you do, and so do I. But the Blaney crowd are neither wise nor brainy. They are frauds."

"Do you mean conscious frauds? Wilfully deceptive?"

"To a certain degree, yes. They do fool themselves, sometimes, into thinking they are sincere, but they can't even fool themselves all the time,—let alone other people."

"Your observations do not interest me." Patty's air was lofty, she looked away into space, as if bored to death with her companion.

"Would it interest you to know that I know Sam Blaney to be a fraud and a dishonest man?"

"I have heard you say that one's friends should be sacred from disparaging remarks."

"True enough. But, in the first place, Blaney isn't my friend, and even if he were, I should sacrifice him or his friendship for you."

"Why?"

"Never mind why. Oh, Patty, rely on my judgment, rely on my word in this matter, and don't have anything more to do with that rubbish bunch!"

"Look here, Little Billee, if that's all the subject you can find to talk about, I believe I'd rather go back and dance. I'm rested now."

"Sit still, Lady Gay. While we're on this subject, we're going to fight it to a finish."

"You mean you're going to fight me to a finish. Go on, it won't take long."

"You poor little girl,—you are tired, I know. Well, to make a long story short, then, you must break with these Cosmic people, because, if you don't, it will harm your social standing and injure your reputation."

"Why? They're absolutely correct and high-minded. They're a little unconventional, maybe, but they're interesting and worth while."

"But they're frauds, Patty. And they've taken you up, because you're a social favourite, and you add lustre to their list."

"And they don't care for me, personally!"

"Now, don't flare up. Of course they like you, personally,—who doesn't? But they make you think you're brainy and soulful and a little old deep-thinker—and,—you're not, you know."

"Well! You are complimentary! What am I, pray? An ignoramus?"

"Hardly that. You're the sweetest, loveliest girl God ever made, but you're not a blue-stocking. You're not college bred, or even well-read."

"Do you know you're a very horrid person? Do you know I wouldn't stand such talk from many people?"

"I should hope not. Very few people know you well enough or love you well enough to tell you these truths."

"I know somebody who loves me too much to talk to me like that."

"Van Reypen, of course. But, Patty, he doesn't approve of the Blaney crowd, either, and you know it."

"That's because he doesn't understand them, and——"

"Wait a minute. Just what do you mean by understand them? They speak English, I suppose."

"How dense you are! There is much beside language of words to be understood by kindred——"

"Don't you dare say souls!"

"I will,—I do say souls! That's what has no meaning for you!"

"Go on, Posy Face! You're pretty stunning when you get really stirred up!"

Farnsworth's face broke into a broad smile, and Patty was so amazed at his sudden change of manner that it irritated her.

"Oh, I am, am I! Well, other people have thought so, too. To the extent of putting it into poetry—real poetry!"

"Such as what?"

Farnsworth was so cynical of tone, that Patty broke her pledge of secrecy to the small extent of quoting a few words from the poem Blaney had given her.

"Such as this," she cried:

"——perhaps because her limpid face Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein The dimples found no place to anchor and Abide."

"That is poetry, indeed!" agreed Farnsworth, looking at her quizzically. "Did you say it was written to you?"

"Yes, Sam Blaney wrote it, to me. I didn't mean to tell you, it's a confidential matter,—but you were so horrid about him——"

"Wait a minute, Patty. Is that an original poem, that Blaney wrote for you alone?"

"Yes, it is. I promised not to tell it to anybody, so I'll ask you to say nothing about it."

"Tell me more of it."

"No, I won't. I promised not to."

"You needn't. I'll tell you what comes next:

'——perhaps because her tresses beat A froth of gold about her throat, and poured In splendour to the feet that ever seemed Afloat.'

Isn't that it?"

"Yes! How did you know?" Patty's startled eyes were wide in amazement.

"You dear little goose. I hate to give you a shock, Posy-girl, but those lines were written by a not altogether obscure poet,—one James Whitcomb Riley."

"What! It's no such thing! Mr. Blaney wrote them about me! They begin——"

"Wait! Don't break your promise of confidence. They begin:

"'I loved her.—Why? I never knew.' Don't they?"

"Yes, that's the poem Sam Blaney wrote for me——

"But he chanced to write it after Riley did—not before. Strange they were so similarly inspired, wasn't it?"

"William Farnsworth, do you mean to tell me that that is a poem of Riley's,—and Sam Blaney palmed it off on me as his own!"

"It looks that way, Patty. At any rate, those are Riley's lines. I've known the thing for years. It's a favourite of mine."

"But I've a book of Riley's,—it isn't in that."

"My child, you mustn't get annoyed with me, when I tell you you're not deeply versed in book-lore,—or deeply booked in verse-lore! For it's true. I admit that is not one of the poet's best known bits,—it's in 'Flying Islands of the Night,'—but it is so exquisite that it ought to be better known. And, by the way, Patty, if you thought Blaney did that gem, I don't wonder you admired him. But, dear little girl, do you see now that the man is capable of deception?"

Patty looked deeply troubled. "You're sure, Billee,—you're positive about this?"

"As sure as I am of my own name."

"Then I want nothing more to do with Sam Blaney or any of his crowd. I'll never forgive it. Why, he wrote the poem while I sat looking at him,—just as fast as he could scribble."

"Doesn't that seem to prove it? He knew Riley's lines, and wrote them down. I doubt if the greatest poet that ever lived scribbled lines like that, offhand."

"Of course they couldn't! You've done it, Little Billee. You've smashed my idols, blown up my air castles, knocked the pedestals from under my heroes——"

"I'm sorry, dear,—but when they are unworthy idols and heroes——"

"And they are! I see it all now. I banked on Mr. Blaney's genius mostly on account of that poem. But, as you say, the very fact that he made me promise not to show it to anybody—but I don't need to prove it. You tell me it's Riley's, and there's no further question about it."

"I'll send you the book, Patty. You'll enjoy it all."

Patty smiled. "I don't want it in corroboration of your assertion, but I'd love to have it. I'd like to know more poetry, Billee. As you so delicately hinted, my education on such matters is a little lacking."

"That's your own fault," said Farnsworth, bluntly. "Poetry isn't a thing to learn at school,—but alone, and at odd times and moments."

"It seems queer," and the earnest little face gazed into his, "for you to know such a lot about poetry. You're so——"

"Go on; don't mind hurting me. So uncouth, awkward, clumsy, lacking in—er—understanding, wasn't it?"

Farnsworth spoke bitterly, and his deep blue eyes were clouded.

"No," Patty returned, gently, "no, I didn't mean all those horrid things, and you know it! I meant, you're so busy with your mines and things, and so wrapped up in your business that it's surprising to know you have time for poetry."

"It's my theory that one can always find time for anything he really wants to do?"

"Can he? Do you suppose, then, you could find time to teach me a little bit about poetry, and how to study it,—or, don't you really want to do this?"

Farnsworth looked at her, and a great and tender light came into his eyes. Then, with a quick smile, he said, lightly, "Yes, indeed; I'll make out a list of books for you tomorrow. May I send them to you?"

Patty was aware of a sudden lack of enthusiasm in Farnsworth's manner, and with equal coolness, she said, "Thank you, that won't be necessary. Just send the list, and I can get them. And, now I think I must begin to commence to think about considering going home."

"Yes, it's late. Who's taking you?"

"I'm going with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. They kindly asked me."

"Very well. Will you go now?"

"Yes, please. And, I—I want to thank you for setting me straight about the Blaneys."

"Don't include Alla. I doubt if she'd do a deceptive thing. But all the same, Patty, she's no friend for you. You don't care for her, do you?"

"No; I did at first, she interested me——"

"I know; 'interested you strangely,' as the novelists say."

"Yes, just that. She is so queer and unusual and——"

"Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, freakish."

"I suppose so. But I liked it all, at first. I don't mind owning up I was getting a little tired of it. It didn't——"

"It didn't make good, did it? But you're through with it now. How will you break it all off, without unpleasantness—for you?"

"Oh, I can manage that by my tactful nature. I mean, with Alla. I shan't bother to be specially tactful with Sam. Need I be?"

"No. When a man has practised a fraud like that on you, he deserves no consideration whatever."

"And tell me, Little Billee, tell me quickly, for I must really be going, how did you walk in there and kidnap me so easily?"

"I had a sort of notion that you ought to be looked after. Channing was here, laughing over some of the details of the Blaney party that he had heard of, and when he told about your dance,—well, Patty, I'll be honest with you. I wanted to see that dance. You know how I love your dancing. Also, I wanted to know just what the dance was,—for I know Grantham."

"The dance was all right, Billee?"

"Yes, perfectly all right, only I'd rather you'd worn sandals. But it was a wonderful dance,—exquisite, poetic, all that is beautiful. I went in, reminded Sam of our old acquaintance, and he welcomed me decently, if not over-cordially. I saw one or two numbers on the program before yours, and I concluded I didn't want you mixed up with that bunch. They're right enough, but their unconventionality and ultra Bohemianism are not the element in which Patty Fairfield belongs. Then came your dance. Unspeakably lovely, all that it ought to be, but not for that herd of idiots! So, I made up my mind I'd persuade you to go home with me,—pretty much instanter! I told Blaney I intended to take you. He was mad all through, and denied my right to ask you to leave his party. But,—well, I reminded him of a few of our past memories—memories fraught with sadness!—to put it poetically,—and he made no further objections to my carrying out my own sweet will——"

"And so you carried out——"

"My own sweet girl! Exactly! Patty, you little rogue, you musn't bewitch me like that! If you do, I'll pick you up again, and carry you off—oh, here comes Mrs. Morrison. Have you come to carry Patty off?"

"Yes," and Mrs. Morrison looked regretful. "I'm sorry, Patty, dear, but really——"

"It's time! Yes, I know it, and I'm quite ready to go. Good night, Little Billee."

"Good night, Patty. Get a good rest, for you really need it."



CHAPTER XVII

PATTY'S DECISION

"You see, Nan, it isn't fair. I don't feel honest to keep Phil in uncertainty, when I don't think—no, I really don't think I'm going to marry him."

"But good gracious, Patty, you ought to know by this time! Either you care for him or you don't."

"Nan, I've only learned of late that when people say 'care for' they mean love. I think it's a silly phrase,—why, I care for lots of things——"

"There are a good many things you've only learned of late, Patty, and a good many more you've still to learn. But I really think you ought to make up your mind about Phil Van Reypen."

"Well, amn't I making it up as fast as I can? I'm going right at it now, in dead earnest, and you've got to help me."

Nan smiled at the anxious face that looked into her own.

They were in Patty's boudoir, the morning after the Christmas party. A breakfast tray, with contents only partly demolished, was pushed away, as the importance of the discussion made food seem an intrusive factor.

Patty's cap was askew on her hastily knotted-up curls, and she gathered about her the voluminous folds of a billowy, blue silk affair, that was her latest acquisition in the way of negligees.

"My child," said Nan, "you have given yourself away. If you want any help in making up your mind, you are not in love with that young man. You don't 'care for' him, in the technical sense of the term."

"But he's very nice, Nancy. He's a big-hearted, fine-minded——"

"Upstanding, clean-cut American gentleman. Let me help you out. Yes, Patty, he's all those things and more. But if you don't love him you mustn't marry him. You're old enough to know your own mind."

"I'm not such an ancient!"

"Don't be silly! You're nearly twenty-one——"

"Just twenty and a half."

"Well, all right, twenty and a half. But that's not like seventeen. You're young for your years, I think. But anyway, you've seen enough of men to know if Phil Van Reypen is 'Lord of your life,—your King,—your Star!' Is he?"

"Not much he isn't! Why, Nan, he's an awfully nice chap, but no 'Philip, My King!' There, you see I can quote poetry as well as you. Oh, Nan, Bill Farnsworth knows an awful lot about poetry! Would you think he would?"

"Now, Patty, keep to the subject in hand. Fred and I both think you ought to be engaged to Philip, or else tell him you won't be. It isn't fair to him, to act as you do."

"I know it, you angel stepmother, and so, I'm going to decide, right now,—with much quickness. Heigho! Which shall it be? Patty Van Reypen,—or stay an old maid all my life."

"Oh, I dare say there are others. You may possibly have another chance at matrimony."

"Nan," and Patty turned suddenly grave, "I don't like that—a chance at matrimony. I mean, if one gets engaged, it ought to be to a man she loves so much that she doesn't think of it as a 'chance.' It ought to be the one and only."

"Why, that's just what I'm trying to say, dear. Now, is Phil the one and only?"

"No, ma'am. Not by no manner of means, he isn't. Nixie, he is not!"

"That mass of negatives sounds rather conclusive to me. So, with that as a premise, I'm going to advise you, even urge you to tell him so with unmistakable definiteness."

"But, Nan, it makes him feel so bad."

"That is the trouble, Patty. Every true woman hates to disappoint the man who truly loves her. And Phil adores you. His love is deep and sincere. He would make you very happy—if you loved him. If not, it would only mean unhappiness for you both. And, so, it is really kinder to him to tell him so frankly and let him give up any false hopes."

"I know it, and I'm going to do it. But I don't know just how. You see, Nan, he is so persistent,—and in such a nice, kind way. When I tell him that, he'll only say that he won't consider it final, and we'll wait and see. Then the argument begins all over again."

"And so, I tell you, at the risk of repeating myself, that you must make up your own mind positively first; then, if an adverse decision, you must tell him, so positively that he can't misunderstand. Then, if he refuses to give up all hope, it isn't your fault."

"That's good, sound talk, Nan, and I will try to do just as you say. But—well, here's the thing in a nutshell. I like Phil so much that I hate to tell him I can't love him."

"Then get that out of the nutshell, and put this in. If you like him so much, it's your duty to tell him you can't love him. Heavens, Patty, have you no idea of other people's rights?"

"I don't believe I have, Nan. I'm a spoiled child, I admit it. You and Dad spoil me, and all my friends do, too. I'm made to believe that the sun rises and sets in silly little Patty Fairfield, and it has made me a vain, conceited, selfish, insufferable Pig! That's what it has done!"

"Oh, Patty, you little idiot! Nothing of the sort. You're,—since you doubtless meant to be contradicted,—you're a dear thing, and there isn't a selfish bone in your body. If people adore you, it's because of your sunny, sweet nature, and your absolute thoughtfulness and kindness to others. Don't be foolish that way. But regarding this matter of Philip, I know you see it as I do. And it's really your kind heart and your dislike of hurting anybody's feelings that makes you hate so to tell him what you must tell him."

"Yes, Nan, I must tell him. I know it myself. I know that I like him lots, and I'd be awfully sorry not to be friends with him, but I don't want to marry him."

"Do you want to marry anybody else?"

"I hardly know how to answer that. I suppose every girl would rather be married than not, if it's to just the right man. But one thing is certain, Philip isn't the right man."

Patty sighed, and the far-away look in her eyes made Nan wonder if there was a "right man" whose image was enshrined in the girl's heart. But she only said, "Then, dear, tell him so."

"I will," said Patty, but she looked very serious and troubled over it.

However, she did tell him so. When Van Reypen called that evening Patty answered his plea with a decisive No. She was very gentle and kindly, but she gave him no ray of hope, no suggestion of a change of decision.

Philip took it gravely, but was unwilling to admit it was final. He knew from Patty's demeanour that she meant it to be, but he hoped he could yet win her by further devotion and patience. She told him this was impossible, but he only smiled and expressed his determination to try it.

"I take your word for it, dear," he said. "I know you mean just what you say, that you don't love me enough to give yourself to me. And I won't urge you, or tease you. Just let me remain your friend, and let me see you, occasionally. I promise not to intrude when I'm not wanted. And though I expect nothing, there's no law against hoping, you know."

Phil's winsome smile was so cheery and yet so wistful, that Patty's heart was touched anew. But she said, "It must be just friends, Phil. I like you lots, you know that, but I can't be always fearful that——"

"That I'll break loose and become unmanageable! You needn't, dear. I promise to abide by your decision, unless I can make you want to change it. Now, forget it all, for the present, and let's be friends and chums and comrades and all those nice things, that don't bother curly-headed little girls and make them look troubled and sad. But, I want to thank you and bless you, dear, for your sweet kindliness to me. Why, you might have sent me flying about my business with nothing more than a curt No. I'm glad you didn't do that!"

"I don't treat my friends like that," and Patty smiled, relieved that the ordeal was practically over. "Now, will you help us with the House Sale?"

"In a minute! But tell me what house is to be sold?"

"Oh, no, we don't sell any house. It's really a sort of Bazaar, but instead of holding it in a hall or any big place, we have it in a house,—this house, in fact."

"Here?"

"Yes, next week. It's a horrid nuisance,—the getting ready and clearing up afterward, I mean,—but we want to make money for the library of our working girls' club."

"Let me give you the money you'd make, and then don't have the Bazaar thing."

"You're awfully good, Phil, and I'd like to do that. But it wouldn't work. The Club would just take your contribution and then go calmly on and have a Bazaar or something beside."

"But it would let you out. You needn't have it here."

"That would be selfish. I'm too selfish as it is. No, I'll have the sale here. Of course, the committee will help, and all that, but well, you know what committees are."

"Yes, they let the chairman do everything and then they criticise. And I'll bet you're chairman, aren't you?"

"Yes," Patty laughed. "How you do catch on! But I'm not shifting responsibility. Indeed, I'd rather do it all, if I could do it my own way. But they all tell me what to do, and then whatever's wrong is my fault."

"I know. All committees are like that. Well, just do the best you can and let me help all I can. Is there much I can do?"

"Why, yes, I think so. At least there will be on the day of the Sale. Come round then and we'll set you to work."

"Glad to. What is to be sold? Can't I buy some things?"

"Yes, indeed. It's a novel sale, in this way: There are wares all over the house. In the library we'll sell books, and in the dining-room, food, and, also, china and glass and fancy linens."

"And in the drawing-room here?"

"Oh, here we'll have the bric-a-brac and pictures and small pieces of furniture,—all these things have been donated, you know. And up in the bedrooms we're to have things to wear, and lace pillows and dresser scarfs and all such things; oh, and hats! And in my boudoir there'll be wonderful kimonos and breakfast caps, and work-baskets and bags and really lovely things."

"I believe you'll enjoy it all. You're enthusiastic already. Let me give you some things for it. Wouldn't you like a few curios and bronze bits from Aunty Van's collections?"

"Oh, we would! But you oughtn't to spare them."

"I've such quantities, a few will never be missed. Come over and pick them out yourself. Bring Elise or whoever is on the committee with you."

"Thank you, Phil, you're awfully good. It will be an immense help. It's easy enough to get fancy things, and even dining-room things; and we've oceans of books and desk fittings and such things. But it's hardest of all to get the very things you offer. And they'll sell, splendidly."

"And you girls dress appropriately, I suppose."

"Yes, of course we never lose a chance of dressing up. Elise will be in cap and gown, in the library. Marie Homer, in full evening regalia, in here. Several as waitresses in the dining-room; flower-girls in the halls; oh, yes, we even use the kitchen. We have cooks there, and they'll sell all sorts of aluminum cook dishes and laundry things. It's really very well planned and I s'pose it will be fun. In the little reception room we have all sorts of motor things,—robes, coats, lunch-baskets, cushions, all the best and newest motor accessories. General Sports goods, too, I believe. Daisy's running that."

"And where are you?"

"Up in my own boudoir. I'm to wear a gorgeous Chinese kimono and one fascinating cap after another, selling them off of my head to the eager throngs of purchasers!"

"Fine! You'll do a rushing business. I'll give you some wares to sell up there, too. Say, some Oriental couch cushions, and some Persian slippers, and things from Auntie's wardrobe."

"Do you think you ought to?"

"Why, of course. All her things are mine, and there are such quantities of really valuable stuffs and trinkets I don't know what to do with them. And as to Aunty Van's own wishes, I know she would have been glad to have them used in this way,—especially for you."

Patty looked up at him, quickly. She well remembered Mrs. Van Reypen's affection for her, and what form it took.

"Phil," she said, "I don't want you to give these things for my sake——"

"Now, don't you worry, Curlyhead, I give them solely and wholly for the good of the cause. Indeed, if you weren't connected with the affair, I'd give twice as many!"

Philip's smile contradicted this awful taradiddle, and Patty rejoiced at his nonsense. Much as she wanted his gifts for the Sale, she didn't want to feel that it placed her under special obligations to him.

Just then the doorbell sounded, and in a moment Daisy Dow and Bill Farnsworth appeared. They were in gay spirits, having been to see a new comic opera, which proved such a bore that they left before it was over.

"Such rubbish!" Daisy exclaimed. "Old jokes, old music, old dances. So I proposed we leave it to its fate and run up here. Glad to see us, Patty?"

"Yes, indeed! Just listen while I tell you of all the things I've wheedled out of Philip for our Sale."

"Gorgeous!" cried Daisy, after hearing the list. "Haven't you some for my room, Mr. Van Reypen?"

"I'm sure I have. You can use anything sporty?"

"Anything."

"Then I'll give you a first-class tennis set. I'll order it sent up from Ball and Bat's, or you can pick it out there yourself."

Daisy noticed that Van Reypen did not give her any of his aunt's heirlooms, but she gratefully accepted the offered gift.

"What shall I give you, Patty?" asked Bill. "What's your specialty?"

"Negligees and boudoir caps," said Patty, demurely; "have you any?"

"Something just as good. Want some Indian moccasins and Navajo blankets——"

"Now, Bill," said Daisy, "you promised me the Navajo, for a motor robe."

"All right. I'll give each good little girl one. Then Patty, how'd you like some real Hopi baskets?"

"Beautiful! You boys are awfully good to us. We'll have a wonderful sale."

"If only people come to buy," demurred Daisy.

"Oh, they'll come fast enough. We'll make oceans of money! I'm just beginning to get into the notion of the thing."

"Will those queer friends of yours be here?"

"What queer friends?"

"Those soully ones. I've never seen them, but I've heard a lot about them."

"From Chick Channing, I suppose," said Patty, coolly. "How that boy does love to exaggerate. I don't know, Daisy, whether they'll be here or not. If they are, use your wiles to sell them a lot of things out of your room, won't you?"

"Yes, I will, for I don't believe they'll care for your lace caps and pillows."



CHAPTER XVIII

THE HOUSE SALE

The House Sale was in full swing. It had been well advertised, and the object was a popular one, and throngs of willing buyers crowded the Fairfield house.

The family belongings had, many of them, been carried to the upper floors, and the first and second stories given over to the Bazaar.

The beds had been removed and the bedrooms were veritable stores of all sorts of light and dainty apparel and feminine trinkets. The rooms downstairs were filled with fine wares and were crowded with purchasers. The girls, dressed to suit their calling, were brisk and busy salesladies, and everywhere was laughter and merry chat.

Daisy, in a stunning new sports suit, looked with satisfaction on her stacks of golf accoutrements, skates, tennis sets, and side lines of bright caps and sweaters for both sexes. And her wares simply melted away. She laughingly put up her prices, but so attractive were the goods that they sold quickly.

Elise, too, did a rushing business in the library. She had several assistants, and they were all kept at work by the kind patrons. Many worthwhile books had been given the girls, and there were beside, library furnishings, and a few autographed books and letters that commanded large prices. A set of Riley's works was on sale, and these Farnsworth bought, requesting that they remain in their place until his further directions.

"Whatever are you going to do with them, Bill?" asked Elise, who looked like a pretty Portia in her cap and gown.

"Why not peruse them myself?" he returned.

"But I chance to know that you have a set of Riley."

"Well, maybe, I'll give them to somebody as a gift. If I can't find anybody to accept them, I'll turn them over to your girls' library."

"Oh, I dare say you can give them away. A beautiful set like that! Why, they're Russia bound!"

"Why, so they are!"

"As if he didn't know that!" exclaimed one of the girls to Elise, as Farnsworth sauntered away. "Why, he gave that set to the sale!"

"He did! And then bought them back again!"

"Yes, that's just what he has done."

"Oh, well, then, he does mean to give them to somebody,—somebody in particular."

And Farnsworth certainly did mean to give them to somebody in particular. He designed them as a gift for Patty. He knew she would enjoy the poems, and he chose the edition with great care. Then, to enhance the value, he made it a present to the Club Sale, and promptly bought it back.

The big Westerner made his way through the crowds, stopping here and there to buy a flower or a trinket from the beguiling vendors. He looked in at the dining-room, and saw the long table set with marvelous confections, each to be sold with its dish of fine china or crystal. Also, on side tables were center-pieces, doilies, and napkins of all varieties of embroidery and decoration. A large back veranda had been arranged as a refreshment room, and here Farnsworth discovered Nan and Mr. Fairfield eating ice cream.

"Join us," they begged, but a smiling headshake was the negative reply.

"I'm on a still hunt for Patty. I'm told she's upstairs."

"Yes, in her own rooms," said Nan. "But you can't get in, the place is jammed. Wait till she has sold off a lot of stuff, then there'll be at least standing room. I've just come down from there and I never saw such a crowd."

"I'm fairly good at stemming crowds,—I think I'll go up."

Farnsworth squared his broad shoulders and started up the stairway.

By tactful manoeuvring, rather than by muscular strength, he gained his goal, and stood in the doorway of Patty's boudoir.

She was showing off a boudoir set to a prospective purchaser. It was of pale blue brocaded satin, edged with swansdown. There was a fetching lace cap with blue bows and little yellow rosebuds; also dainty blue slippers with rosebuds on them. Gaily, Patty donned the lovely garments, over her fluffy white frock, and pirouetted before her own cheval glass.

"You see," she said, in wheedling, saleslady tones, "it is a work of art! Ma foi! but it is chic! n'est-ce pas? Excuse my fearful French, but I can't sell this Parisian rig in English!"

"It is just darling!" declared the lady who was looking at it. "Of course I'll take it. I never saw one I liked so well."

Farnsworth stood watching the scene, thinking how much Patty's winning personality added to the charm of the robe, and wondering if she would accept the books he had bought for her.

The sale concluded, Patty thanked her patron, and in a moment was called upon to repeat the performance, as indeed she had been doing most of the evening. This time it was not so willing a buyer.

A gaunt, elderly spinster, with elaborately coiffed white hair and ostentatious costume, demanded a kimono that should be just her style and of embroidered crepe de chine.

"Here is a lovely one in heliotrope," said Patty, smiling as she brought one of the prettiest ones she had.

"Heliotrope!" the lady almost screamed. "Do I then look so old? Am I in the sere and yellow? Why do you offer me heliotrope?"

"Oh, don't you care for it?" said Patty, pleasantly; "it's one of my favourite colours. What colour do you like best?"

"I like amber, but, of course, you wouldn't have that. Green, now?"

"No, we don't seem to have those. We've mostly pink and blue."

"Old-fashioned! Why don't you have amber or russet?"

"I wish we had. I'd love to give you what you want. How about white?"

"Namby pamby! But show me what you have. I'm determined to get something."

"If you only cared for blue," and Patty sighed. "Here's a new box yet unopened, but it says on the end, 'Light Blue.' So that wouldn't do."

"Oh, well, let me see it."

Patty opened the Japanese looking box, and out from the tissue papers fell a dream of a kimono. Of palest blue silk, it was covered with embroidered apple blossoms, not in a set design, but powdered over it, as if wafted there by a summer breeze. The conventional Japanese flowers are cherry blooms, but these were true apple blossoms, softly pink and white, the very loveliest gown Patty had ever seen.

Farnsworth was looking on, and he, too, caught sight of the exquisite design. He looked quickly at Patty, and, in dumb show, begged her not to sell the garment. Nor had she any intention of doing so. The moment she saw it, she wanted it for herself, and began hastily to fold it back in its box.

"Wait! Stop!" cried the lady; "I think I want that."

"It's already sold," said Big Bill, stepping forward. "Isn't that the one I ordered, Miss Fairfield?"

"Is it?" said Patty, helplessly, wanting to laugh at the way the lady looked daggers at Bill, yet not knowing quite what to say.

"It is. Kindly lay it aside for me. Mark it Farnsworth."

"Do nothing of the sort!" snapped the lady. "You said that was an unopened box. It can't belong to any one then. I will take it. How much is it?"

Patty thought quickly. She had received a green kimono for Christmas, which she had not worn, and didn't care for. It had been sent her by a distant cousin, who would never know or care what she did with it.

"All right," she said, "take it if you like. You have the first right to it."

Farnsworth looked disturbed, but did not combat Patty's decision.

"But," Patty went on, "I think I have a green one, after all. I've just remembered it. You can take your choice."

Stepping aside to her own wardrobe, Patty brought out a box and shook out a very pretty green gown. She put it on, and, draping it gracefully, stood, with her head on one side, observing the effect. She then looked doubtfully at the lady, and said, "I dare say you like the blue one better, after all. This is a very pale green."

"It's a lovely green! Just the shade I like best. If you're willing, I'll take the green one, by all means."

"Whichever you choose," and Patty swished the green folds around to catch the light. Very becoming it was, and on pretty Patty it looked a dream of loveliness.

"It's just bewitching," declared the gratified purchaser, and she paid for it and left her address to have it sent home.

"Good work!" said Farnsworth, laughing, as the lady passed on to look at other tempting wares. "You hypnotised her into taking the green one. I say, Patty, I want to make you a present of that apple-blossom wrap; mayn't I?"

"It isn't a wrap," said Patty, disdainfully, "it's a kimono, and the very prettiest one I ever saw."

"All right. I don't care what the dinky thing's name is. It's the most exquisite colouring, and it suits you down to the ground."

"It fits me down to the ground, too," laughed Patty, flinging the robe on again, and gathering up its lustrous folds. It was too long for her, but that, of course, could be remedied.

"Yes, you'll have to take a reef in it. Will you accept it, Little Apple Blossom?"

"It's very expensive," Patty demurred, looking over her shoulder at the graceful lines of the garment.

"That doesn't matter," and Farnsworth pulled out a roll of bills from his pocket.

Patty gave him a scornful look. "Don't be so ostentatious!" she flouted. "I didn't mean you couldn't afford it. I mean, I don't care to accept a gift of such value. I know,—we all know—you have the wealth of the Indies!"

Farnsworth looked at her in sheer amazement, a deep red flush stealing over his face. Then, for a moment, he held her eyes with his own, looking steadily at her.

"Very well," he said, gently, returning his money to his pocket. "I won't give it to you, if you don't want me to."

"Oh, gracious to goodness! what a kimono!" cried Daisy Dow, who came flying into the room, "I never saw such a beauty! I want it! Is it yours, Patty? No? Oh, you're just trying it on."

"I'm considering its purchase," said Farnsworth, "if I can find somebody to give it to. Do you like it, Daisy?"

"Do I like it! It's the loveliest thing in the whole Sale! By the way, just look at the presents I've had!"

Sure enough, Daisy was adorned with two or three gay-coloured sport sashes, over her arm were two silk sweaters, and she carried a basket, in which was a collection of gloves, ties, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and various odds and ends of sport apparel.

"What are you doing up here, anyway?" demanded Patty. "Who's looking after your room?"

"All sold out! Not a mite of anything left to sell. I came near disposing of your own pictures that still hang on the wall, and your tables and chairs. Are you really looking for somebody to buy that for, Bill? Well, it might as well be me!"

Daisy laughed gaily, and held out her hands for the kimono.

But Patty drew the blue folds around her and shook her yellow curls. "Possession is nine points of the law," she laughingly said. "I'm going to buy this thing myself."

"You can't," said Farnsworth, looking amused at the situation. "First come, first served. I asked for it before you thought of buying it. Now, I claim my purchase, and I shall give it to one or other of you two girls. I offered it to Patty first, so it is for her to say. If she refuses, I offer it to Daisy."

So gay was his manner, so light his tone, that Patty couldn't resent his words, but a twinkle in his eye made her realise that he knew he was cornering her. He knew how she admired the kimono. It would be difficult if not impossible to duplicate it. She must accept it from him or see Daisy triumphantly walk off with it.

The latter alternative was surely unthinkable! So Patty said, with exaggerated meekness, "Thank you, Little Billee, I accept it with pleasure. You are very kind."

Farnsworth burst out laughing at the mild tone and the shy, downcast eyes, whereupon Patty favoured him with an innocent stare, saying, "What is the matter?"

"A whole lot is the matter!" Daisy answered for him. "I wanted that robe, and now you've gone and got it, Patty Fairfield! You're the girl who gets everything! All right, Bill, just for that, you've got to give me the set of books you bought from Elise, and had saved for you. Will you?"

"If you say I've got to,—why ask me will I?" he returned, good-naturedly. "I am as wax in the hands of you two. Certainly, Daisy, I'll be honoured if you'll accept the books."

"What are they?" asked Patty, carelessly, as she still bent her attention to the embroideries of her new acquisition.

"Oh, it's a set of Riley. A wonderful set,—bound in Russia leather."

Patty looked up, quickly. She felt a conviction that Farnsworth had bought these books for her. To be sure she wouldn't want to accept two handsome presents from him, yet the idea of his so easily passing them over to Daisy annoyed her.

"Riley!" she exclaimed, involuntarily. "Why didn't you give those to me, instead of this gown?"

"The books are better suited to Daisy," he returned, "and the gown suits nobody but you."

"Oh, because Daisy is more intellectual, I suppose, and I'm——"

"Yes, and you're just a little piece of vanity, who cares only for dress and finery."

Farnsworth was having his innings now. Patty had hurt his feelings, and she knew it; and so, he was teasing her in return.

Daisy laughed at Patty's unmistakable chagrin, and ran away downstairs to claim her books.

It so chanced that there was no one else in Patty's boudoir at that moment. Everybody had flocked to the next room to see a new consignment of treasures displayed, and Farnsworth and Patty were alone.

"Yes," he said, looking straight at her, "I did buy the Riley set for you. But as you're so averse to accepting my ostentatious offerings, I thought better to give it to Daisy. And I had another reason, too."

"I'm glad you did," said Patty, coldly; "and I wish you had given her this also."

She began to draw off the kimono, but Farnsworth took a step toward her, and with one big swoop, gathered her into his arms.

"Apple Blossom!" he whispered, "my little Apple Blossom girl!"

So impulsive and all-embracing was the action, so swift the kiss that fell on Patty's pink cheek, and so quickly was she released, that she stood, gasping from breathlessness, and astonishment, as others began to return to the room.

Van Reypen was among them, and he called out to Patty:

"We've come for you. If your things aren't all sold, let somebody else look after them. We're going to supper now, and we want all our crowd together."

Gratefully, Patty turned to him, her head still in a whirl from Farnsworth's audacity, and with Philip she went downstairs.



CHAPTER XIX

PATTY RUNAWAY

The next day was Saturday, and Patty woke to a somewhat dismantled and disordered room. Her bed had been restored to its place, after the guests had departed the night before, but other appointments were a bit lacking. Nan had forbidden her to rise until noon, for the Bazaar had meant a large expenditure of strength and nerve force, and Patty was not robust.

Before she rang for her morning chocolate, she thought over the events of the previous evening. She was furiously angry at Farnsworth. So much so, that she could think of little else.

"How dared he?" she exclaimed to herself. "The idea of his thinking I am the sort of girl he can pick up and kiss like that!"

And then her face grew pink with blushes and she buried it in a pillow because she realised she was not nearly so indignant as she ought to be!

"Good heavens!" she thought, frantically. "Am I in love with Little Billee? With a Westerner? A self-made man? Why, he can't hold a candle to Phil for birth and name! And yet—oh, no, I'm not in love with him! He's too—too—he takes too much for granted. It's got to stop! Think how he carried me out of the Studio party! And last night! No wonder he walked off home without seeing me again! I wonder what he will offer by way of apology or explanation. I believe I'll ask him!"

Patty reached out her hand for the telephone, and suddenly stopped.

"I can't!" she whispered to herself, shame-facedly, "I—I don't want any apology from him. I—I—oh, fiddlesticks! I don't know what to do! Guess I'll have a talk with Nan—no, I won't. It was all very well to talk to her about Phil,—because I didn't care about him. But I do care about Billee. Oh! do I 'care for' him? I don't know—but I'm not going to think about it. It gets me all mixed up. I wonder—I wish I could go away. I will! I guess I can do as I've a mind to!"

After a little further thought, and a determined wag of the head, Patty rang her bell, and when the maid came she said, "Bring my chocolate, please, and then get out a suitcase, and pack it for me."

"Yes, Miss Patty," replied Jane, and until her breakfast came, Patty's mind worked rapidly.

"Jane, I'm going to elope," she announced, as the maid reappeared with a tray.

"Yes, Miss Patty," and though Jane's eyes flew wide open, she made no verbal comment.

"Don't look as if you had been shot!" said Patty, laughing; "I'm going alone, but you are to help me get off. Pack the things I tell you and then order the little car for me. I'm not going to tell you where I'm going, for I don't want any one to know. But after I'm gone, you may give Mrs. Fairfield a note I will leave with you. Understand?"

"Yes, Miss Patty," and Jane began at once to lay out the desired clothing.

"And," Patty went on, "if any one calls or telephones or asks for me in any way, just say that I've gone away for a few days to recuperate after the exertions of the House Sale."

She carried out her plan with no trouble at all. Jane took down the suitcase, Patty went down, too, by the back stairs, and got into the car unseen, and was driven to the Grand Central Station.

Admonishing the chauffeur to tell no one where he took her, Patty bought a ticket for Fern Falls, and in a few hours amazed Adele Kenerley by walking in at her front door.

"Patty Fairfield! You angel child! Where did you drop from? The blue skies?"

"Not quite. I flew up from New York to beg the hospitality of your roof for a few days."

"For as long as we can keep you. You dear old thing! How well you look!"

"Don't say that! I'm here to recuperate after a strenuous gay season and a particularly tiring Bazaar thing last night."

"Oh, yes, Bazaars are the most tiresome things in the world! You ought never to go to them."

"This one came to me. It was at our house. I'll tell you all about it later. But, honestly, Adele, I was just ready to perfectly fly this morning! My nerves gave out, my muscles are all lame and tired, and then, my brain gave way. So, sez I, why not flee away to that haven of rest what I wot of,—and here I am flewn!"

"Well, I'm jolly glad to see you. Jim will be overjoyed, too. Come right up to your own room, and take off your things, while I go and speak to Cook. Anything particular you want for lunch?"

"No, thank you. Any old thing, so long as it's good. As if you ever had anything that wasn't salt of the earth!"

"Oh, Patty! You don't eat salt of the earth! Unless you're a cannibal!"

"I'd like to know what kind of salt you do eat, then! Run along, Adele, and order a dressy luncheon. I am pretty hungry."

Mrs. Kenerley went off, and Patty stood for a moment, looking out of the window. "I did just the right thing," she said to herself. "Up here, where it's so quiet and peaceful, I can think things out, and know just where I stand. Down home, I shouldn't have had a minute to myself. It is beautiful here. So peaceful and calm."

Patty turned, as some one entered her room, and saw a maid, ready to unpack for her.

"I've only a suitcase, Tessie," she smiled. "I'm here but for two or three days."

"Yes, Miss Fairfield. It's good to see you again. What will you put on?"

"The little rose Georgette, please. Why, here are two of my frocks in this wardrobe!"

"Yes, you left them last summer, and Mrs. Kenerley said to leave them there against your next visit."

"Good work! Here's a white crepe de chine. Just the thing for tomorrow. No guests, are there, Tessie?"

"None, Miss Fairfield. Some ladies left this morning."

"Now, tell me all about it," said Adele, coming back. "You may go, Tessie. I'll look after Miss Fairfield."

Tessie went away, and the two friends sat down for a chat.

"First of all, Adele," Patty said, "I don't want any one to know where I am. I want a few days of absolute freedom from interruption,—I've some things to think out."

"H'm," said Adele. "Who is he?"

Patty turned pink. "Nobody," she returned; "or, if it's anybody, it's Phil Van Reypen; he wants me to marry him, and I don't know whether to or not."

Adele looked at Patty's transparent face, and knew she was not telling the whole truth. "You won't," she said, astutely. "But never mind why you came, dear; tell me as much or as little as you wish. And nobody shall know of your whereabouts, I promise you that. We'll have a lovely, comfy time, just by ourselves."

"And I'll tell you this much, Adele; if Bill Farnsworth telephones, on no account tell him I'm here. Please tell him I'm not!"

"Oh, fie, fie, Patty; tell a naughty story?"

"Sometimes a naughty story is justifiable; or, well, if you can't conscientiously do it, let me know if he threatens to come up here and I'll scoot off somewhere else."

"I think I see you! I'll leave it to Jim. He'll manage it diplomatically. And perhaps Bill won't telephone."

"No, most likely not. But he may. He doesn't know I'm here,—nobody does,—but I suppose this will be the first place anybody would suspect me of being."

"I think very likely. Come on, now, I'll help you dress for lunch. What a beautiful kimono! Where did you get that?"