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CHAPTER XIII

ELISE AND PATTY

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, you're enough to make me cross. Here I'm going to have a big Christmas tree, and a lovely Christmas party, and you won't come to it.

That makes me cross, but to have you throw me over for those ridiculous Blaneys makes me crosser yet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not infatuated with Sam Blaney!"

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

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

"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 fêted 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.