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CHAPTER XI

THE CITY STUDIO

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

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

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

"Such as what?"

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

"That doesn't sound so awfully wonderful."

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

"The what?"

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

"Don't they dance?"

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

"Can I see it?"

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

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

"Yes, Sam likes it so."

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

"Oh, not so bad as that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patty and her escort went away, and after a short silence, Blaney said,

"You didn't show Mrs. Fairfield the verses I wrote for you, did you?"

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

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

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

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

"Of genius, why not say it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What imagery!" murmured somebody, and some one else said,

"Inspiration!" in an awed tone.

"And now to work," urged Alla. "We must plan for our holiday party.

Shall we have it here?"

"Here, of course," she was answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bravo!" "Glorious!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nan was waiting up for her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII

AN ODD DINNER PARTY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who else?"

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

"Mr. Farnsworth?"

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

"Why not?"

"Dunno."

"Did you quarrel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll stop in a minute, Patty. Let me laugh a minute, or I'll explode.

I say, Mrs. Fairfield, did you ever see anything like the lady's robe!

I don't often notice costumes of the fair sex, but that was a hummer from Humville."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Horizon," suggested Chick, kindly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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