Читать книгу: «Patty Blossom», страница 4

CHAPTER VII

A CLEVER PLAN

Patty waited, thinking over the coming performance and mentally rehearsing her part. It was not really difficult, but it was tricky, for unless she sprang through the paper-covered hoops at just the right moment, it would be an awkward blunder. However, after many rehearsals, she felt pretty sure of herself, and looked forward with pleasure to the fun.

She glanced round Ray's room. It was full of attractive odds and ends in addition to its furniture and regular appointments, which were of the most elaborate description. Rising, Patty examined some of the pictures and ornaments, and became so engrossed, that the minutes flew by unnoticed. On the dressing-table was a silver-framed clock, and a tinkling chime rang out from it, before Patty had given a thought to the hour. Quarter-past seven! And the performance was scheduled for half-past eight. She had waited there for Ray nearly fifteen minutes. It was very queer. What could have detained her?

Patty waited restlessly for five minutes longer, and then determined to go in search of Ray. She turned the doorknob, but the door would not open! Like a flash the explanation came to her. She was locked in! Ray had done it, in fulfilment of her threat to "get even" with Patty.

The summons over there had been a blind, to trick her into the room, and now she was locked in!

Patty smiled at the silly ruse. The matter couldn't be serious,—she could certainly get out some way, and get home in time to don her costume and get to the circus, even if a little late. Unwilling to cause unnecessary disturbance, she looked round the room to note the exits. There was but one other door and that led to a dressing-room, which in turn had a door opening into a bathroom. That was all. No more doors were to be seen. The windows had no balconies, and being on the second floor, there was no chance of escape thereby.

Patty looked around for a telephone, but saw none. She thought such an elaborate household would have many of them, but realised that Ray probably had a sitting-room or boudoir in addition to these rooms and her telephone would be there. Patty knew the girl was an only child of doting parents, and that she was spoiled and pampered to an inordinate degree.

Patty considered. Doubtless Mr. and Mrs. Rose were not at home, or, if they were, they would not answer a call, for Ray would have looked after that. The servants, likewise, must have been ordered not to release Patty, for Ray Rose was not one to do anything by halves, and if she had planned to get Patty over there, she had also planned to keep her there.

It was ridiculous, it was maddening,—but it was true. Patty was locked in a room and could not get out. She hadn't heard a key turn, but it must have done so. Peeping in the keyhole, she could see that the key was in the lock, from the hall side.

Endeavouring to use her ingenuity, Patty tried to turn the key from her side by means of a button-hook, a nail file, a hairpin, and a glove stretcher. Needless to say her attempts were unsuccessful.

"I've heard of turning a key in its own lock," she mused, but she found the feat impossible of achievement.

Again the chiming little timepiece reminded her that another quarter hour had flown.

"Half-past seven!" she thought. "My dear Miss Fairfield, you have got to do something pretty quick! Get busy! What would your favourite heroes of wild romance do to get out of such a fix as this?"

When Patty was baffled, she always talked to herself. But her appeals to herself or her ingenuity did no good, and after a thorough search for a means of exit, she concluded to call out. She felt it was an undignified thing to do, and, too, she felt it would do no good, but there was no other course to pursue, that she could see.

So she called, gently at first, and then more loudly, but, as she had anticipated, there was no response. Going close to the door, she called again and again, and then concluded it was useless.

She threw herself into an easy chair, thoroughly angry with Ray Rose, and chagrined at herself for being led into such a trap.

"I might have known there was some trickery," she thought, "when that girl called me over here at the last minute. And she was so sweet and friendly today, it should have put me on my guard. Elise warned me, but I never dreamed of anything like this. However, now is no time to worry over that, I must get out,—that's what I must do, get out!"

But it seemed hopeless. The case was so simple, that there was no opportunity for ingenious schemes. There she was, in the beautiful room, with the only exit to the house, the hall door, securely locked. The door was of solid mahogany, the knob and lock of a most secure firmness. Had it been a light or flimsy door, Patty would have rattled and shaken it, but this door was solid as a rock. Either, she would have to think up some clever plan, and that quickly, or spend the entire evening there in solitude. Her quick mind took in these alternatives, and she thought that if no idea presented itself soon, she would succumb to the inevitable, and quietly settle down for the evening. There were pleasant-looking books about, soft couches and pillows, convenient reading-lamps, and even a box of chocolates on a table. Matters might be worse, thought philosophical Patty. But she hated to give up,—to acknowledge herself beaten.

Once again she opened a window, and looked out. It was on the side of the house, and toward the rear.

The house was not set back far from the street; indeed, the sidewalk was not more than forty feet from the window out of which Patty leaned. An idea came to her, and going quickly to the table she found a sheet of paper and a pencil. There was no desk in the room, and she felt herself lucky to find these things at all. She hastily scribbled a note, but she made it urgent and definite. Then she looked around for a missile which she could throw to the street. There were few things that were available, and she finally selected a heavy hairbrush as the best. It was of ivory and bore a bold monogram, as did the rest of Ray's toilet appointments, but Patty took it unhesitatingly, as she had reached the limit of her patience and consideration.

She tied the note firmly to the brush, and leaning far out of the window, waited for a promising passer-by. At last, a young man came along, and Patty deftly threw the brush so that it landed at his very feet. Practice at basketball and other such sports had made her accurate of aim and as the astonished man saw the brush, he naturally picked it up.

Patty watched him take off the note and read it, by the light of the street electric, and after a swift gaze at the house, he started off at a brisk pace.

"H'm," said Patty to herself, "not so worse, Miss Fairfield, not so worse! The axe is laid at the root of the tree!"

Glancing at the clock, she sat down to wait. It was twenty minutes to eight, but her heart beat high with hope. If she could outwit Ray Rose it would be great fun, and she would "pay back" the mischievous girl in her own coin.

At ten minutes to eight, the door of the room opened a little way. A servant of the Rose household put her head in, and said, "This woman wishes to see you, Miss Fairfield," and Sarah, a maid from the Farringtons', stood in the doorway.

"Come in, Sarah," said Patty. "Close that door!" she said to the Rose servant, so peremptorily, that the order was obeyed at once.

"Quick!" whispered Patty, and Sarah tore off her long cloak and bonnet and veil, and Patty as quickly put them on. Then she took the small basket Sarah had brought, and standing near the door, said, in a clear voice: "You may go now, Sarah. Tell Miss Elise not to look for me this evening."

"Yes, Miss Patty," Sarah responded, and then, as the servant outside opened the door, Patty slipped through, turning her face so that it might not be seen. The Rose servant, thinking Sarah had come out, relocked the door quickly, that the prisoner might not escape, and Patty went demurely downstairs, and out at the back door, without let or hindrance. Once in the street, she fairly flew to the hall where the circus performance was to be given, for she well knew that Ray Rose had probably already secured her dancing costume from Elise by some plausible bit of trickery.

It was but a few moments after eight when Patty walked into the dressing-room of the amateur performers.

"For gracious' sake, Patty, where have you been?" cried Elise, who was sitting before a mirror, making up her face. "Nobody could find you anywhere!"

"Here I am, all right," said Patty, blithely. "Where's Ray Rose?"

"In the next room. Where's your costume? Ray came over and got it from the house."

"Oh, she did, did she? All right."

Patty went into the next room, where several girls sat in their stage costumes, and all with warm wraps around them. Ray Rose was completely enveloped in a long cloak that covered her from neck to feet.

"Hello, Ray," said Patty, pleasantly; "I'll take my costume now, as I want to get dressed in it."

If ever there was a surprised looking girl it was Ray at that moment.

She stared at Patty as at an apparition.

"Where—where did you come from?" she stammered.

"Oh, I ran over from your house. Your room is lovely, Ray, but I got awfully tired of it. Now, you get yourself out of my skirts, and hand them over to me. But first, you go and telephone to your household to let Sarah, the Farringtons' maid, out of your room, where she may yet be locked in, for all I know."

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."