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CHAPTER III
THE WHITE LADY

“I feel in a gay mood,” said Nan, as she clasped Patty round the waist, and always ready for a dance, Patty fell into step, and the two waltzed round the room, while Patty sang tum-te-tum to the air of a popular song.

“As if you two ever felt any other way!” exclaimed Mr. Fairfield, smiling at them from the depths of his easy chair. “But what does this gay mood betoken? I suppose you want to drag me out to the theatre or opera to-night.”

Mr. Fairfield’s pleasant smile belied his pretense at sharpness, and he waited to hear a reply.

“That would be lovely,” said Nan, “and we’ll go if you invite us. But what I had in mind is this: I’d like to dine in the Restaurant.”

“Good!” cried Mr. Fairfield. “I feel gay enough for that, myself, and we haven’t dined there for nearly a week.”

The Fairfields had a complete apartment of their own, and when not invited out, usually dined quietly in their own dining-room. But occasionally, when the mood took them, they dined in the great Savoy Restaurant, which was a festive pageant indeed.

Patty loved to sit at a table there, and watch the beautiful women in their elaborate gowns, and their handsome, stalwart escorts, who were sometimes in brave uniforms.

The splendid scene would have palled upon them, had they dined there every evening, but as a change from their small family dinner it was delightful.

“We’ll wear our dress-up frocks,” said Patty, “and perhaps my White Lady will be there again.”

“Your White Lady?” asked Nan. “Who is she?”

“That’s just what I can’t find out, though I’ve asked several people. But she’s the most beautiful lady, with a haughty, proud face, and sad eyes. She always wears white, and there’s an elderly lady who is sometimes with her. A strange-looking old lady in black, she is; and her face is like a hawk’s.”

“Oh, I remember those people; they always sit at the same table.” “Yes, I think they live here. But she is so sweet and lovely I’d like to know her. I make up stories about her all to myself. She’s like Ginevra or the Lady of Shalott.”

“You’re too fanciful, Patty. Probably she’s the Duchess of Hardscrabble.”

“She looks like a Duchess, anyway. And also, she looks like a simple, sweet, lovely lady. I’m going to ask father to find out who she is.”

A little later the Fairfields went down to dinner.

Nan wore an exquisite gown of embroidered yellow satin, and Patty wore a frilled white silk muslin. It was a little low at the throat, and was very becoming to her, and in and out of her piled-up curls was twisted a broad white ribbon, which ended in front in a saucy cluster of bows, after the prevailing fashion.

“This is great fun,” said Patty, as she took her seat with a little sigh of content. “I just love the lights and flowers and music and noise–”

“Can you distinguish the music from the noise?” asked her father, laughing.

“I can if I try, but I don’t care whether I do or not. I love the whole conglomeration of sounds. People laughing and talking, and a sort of undertone of glass and china and waiters.”

“That sounds graphic,” said Nan, “but the waiters here aren’t supposed to make any noise.”

“No, I know it, but they’re just part of the whole scene, and it’s all beautiful together. Oh, there’s my White Lady!”

It was indeed a charming young woman who was just entering the room. She was tall and very slender, with a face serene and sweet. Her large, dark eyes had a look of resignation, rather than sadness, but the firm set of her scarlet lips did not betoken an easily-resigned nature.

With her was the elder lady of whom Patty had spoken. She was sharp-featured and looked as if she were sharp-tempered. She wore a rather severe evening gown of black net, and in her gray hair was a quivering black aigrette.

In contrast to this dark figure, the younger lady looked specially fair and sweet. Her trailing gown was of heavy white lace, and round her beautiful throat were two long strings of pearls. She wore no other ornament save for a white flower in her hair, and her shoulders and arms were almost as white as the soft tulle that billowed against them.

It chanced that Mr. Fairfield’s table was quite near the one usually occupied by these two, and Patty watched the White Lady, without seeming to stare at her.

“Isn’t she exquisite?” she said, at last, for they were not within earshot, and Nan agreed that she was.

As the dinner proceeded, Patty glanced often at the lady of her admiration, and after a time was surprised and a little embarrassed to find that the White Lady was glancing at her.

Fearing she had stared more frankly than she realised, Patty refrained from looking at the lady again, and resolutely kept her eyes turned in other directions.

But as if drawn by a magnet, she felt impelled to look at her once more, and giving a quick glance, she saw the White Lady distinctly smiling at her. There was no mistake, it was a kind, amused little smile of a most friendly nature.

Patty was enchanted, and the warm blood rushed to her cheeks as if she had been singled out for a great honour. But frankly, and without embarrassment, she smiled back at the lovely face, and returned the pleased little nod that was then given her.

“Patty, what are you doing?” said Nan; “do you see any one you know?”

“No,” said Patty, slowly, almost as one in a dream, “my White Lady smiled at me,—that’s all,—so I smiled back at her, and then we bowed.”

“You mustn’t do such things,” said Nan, half smiling herself, “she’ll think you’re a forward American.”

“I am an American,” replied Patty, “and I’d be sorry to be called backward.”

“You never will be,” said her father. “Well, I suppose you may smile at her, if she smiles first, but don’t begin sending her anonymous notes.”

“Nonsense,” said Patty, “but you two don’t know how lovely she is when she smiles.”

Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield were seated with their backs to the lady in question, and could not see her without slightly turning their heads, while Patty, opposite them at the round table, faced her directly.

“You’re fortunate in your position,” observed her father, “for were you seated here and we there, of course she would have beamed upon us.”

“She isn’t beaming,” cried Patty, almost indignantly; “I won’t have that angelic smile called a beam. Now, you’re not to tease. She’s a sweet, dear lady, with some awful tragedy gnawing at her heart.”

“Patty, you’re growing up romantic! Stop it at once. I’ll buy the lady for you, if you want her, but I won’t have you indulging in rubbishy romance like that, with nothing to base it on.”

Patty looked at her father comically.

“I don’t believe you’d better buy her, Daddy, dear,” she said. “You know you often say that, with Nan and me on your hands, you have all you can manage. So I’m sure you couldn’t add those two to your collection; for I feel certain wherever the White Lady goes the Black Lady goes too.”

The subject was lost sight of then, by the greetings of some friends who were passing by the Fairfields on their way out of the Restaurant.

“Why, Mrs. Leigh,” exclaimed Nan, “how do you do? Won’t you and Mr. Leigh sit down and have coffee with us? Or, better yet, suppose we all go up to our drawing-room and have coffee there.”

After Patty had spoken to the newcomers and was sitting silent while her elders were talking, she looked up in surprise as a waiter approached her. He laid a long-stemmed white rose beside her plate, and said, quietly, “From Lady Hamilton, Miss.”

Involuntarily, Patty glanced at the White Lady, and seeing her smile, knew at once that she had sent the rose.

As Patty explained the presence of the flower to the others, Mrs. Leigh glanced across, and said: “Oh, that’s Lady Hamilton! Excuse me, I must speak to her just a moment.”

“Who is Lady Hamilton?” asked Nan of Mr. Leigh, unable longer to repress her interest.

“One of the best and most beautiful women in London,” he replied. “One of the most indifferent, and the most sought after; one of the richest, and the saddest; one of the most popular, and the loneliest.”

All this seemed enough to verify Patty’s surmises of romance connected with the White Lady, but before she could ask a question, Mrs. Leigh returned, and Lady Hamilton came with her. After introductions and a few words of greeting, Lady Hamilton said to Mr. Fairfield: “I wonder if you couldn’t be induced to lend me your daughter for an hour or so. I will do my best to entertain her.”

“Indeed, yes, Lady Hamilton; and I think you will find her quite ready to be borrowed. You seemed to cast a magic spell over her, even before she knew your name.”

“I must confess that I have been wanting to meet her; I have searched this room in vain for some mutual friend who might introduce us, but until I saw Mrs. Leigh over here, I could find no one. Then, to attract Mrs. Leigh’s attention, in hope of her helping me, I sent over a signal of distress.”

“I took it as a flag of truce,” said Patty, holding up the white rose as it trembled on its stem.

“I thought it was a cipher message,” said Nan, smiling. “Patty is so fond of puzzles and secret languages, I wasn’t sure but it might mean ‘All is discovered; fly at once!’”

“It means ‘all is well’,” said Lady Hamilton, in her gracious way; “and now I must fly at once with my spoil.”

She took possession of Patty, and with a few words of adieu to the others, led her from the room. The lady in black rose from the table and followed them, and Patty entered the lift, blissfully happy, but a little bewildered.

“We’ll have our coffee right here,” said Lady Hamilton, as having reached her drawing-room, she proceeded to adjust some dainty gilt cups that stood on a small table. “That is, if you are allowed to have coffee at night. From your roseleaf cheeks, I fancy you drink only honeydew or buttercup tea.”

“No, indeed; I’m far too substantial for those things,” said Patty, as she dropped into the cosy chair Lady Hamilton had indicated; “and for over a year now, I’ve been allowed to have after-dinner coffee.”

“Dear me! what a grown-up! Miss Fairfield, this is Mrs. Betham, my very good friend, who looks after me when I get frisky and try to scrape acquaintance across a public dining-room.”

If Lady Hamilton was lovely when she was silent, she was doubly bewitching when she talked in this gay strain. Little dimples came and went in her cheeks, so quickly that they had scarcely disappeared before they were back again.

Mrs. Betham bowed and spoke politely to Patty, but her voice was quick and sharp, and her manner, though courteous, was not attractive.

“I doubt the coffee’s hot,” she said, as a waiter, who had just brought it in, was filling the tiny cups.

“It’s steaming,” said Lady Hamilton, gaily, and Patty saw at once that whatever it was that made her new friend sorrowful, it was not the grumbling tones of Mrs. Betham.

“It’s quite too hot, Julia,” she went on; “unless you’re careful, you’ll steam your throat.”

“Not I,” growled Mrs. Betham. “I’m not such a stupid as that. But I must say I like my coffee at a table like a Christian, and not setting my cup in my lap, or holding it up in the air.”

“Dear me, Julia,” said Lady Hamilton, with great solicitude expressed on her face; “dear me, your gout must be very bad to-night. It makes you quite cross. Poor dear!”

Mrs. Betham sniffed at this, but a grim smile came into her eyes, and Patty concluded she was not quite so grumpy as she seemed.

After the coffee was finished, and the tray taken away, Mrs. Betham excused herself and went off to her own room.

“The way it began,” said Lady Hamilton, as if to explain her interest in Patty, “was one day when I went through the corridors and passed your drawing-room, and the door was a little mite ajar, and I heard you singing. I am very fond of just that high, sweet kind of voice that you have, and I paused a few moments to listen to you. Then afterward I saw you in the dining-room two or three times at luncheon or dinner, and I took a fancy to know you, for I felt sure I should like you. Do you mind coming to see me once in a while, my dear? I am very lonely.”

“Mind! No, indeed!” cried Patty, impetuously throwing her arms around her new friend. “I loved you the first time I ever saw you. But why do you say you are lonely? You, a great lady.”

“I will tell you my story in a few words,” said Lady Hamilton. “For I suppose you would hear it from others, and I would rather tell it you myself. I am the daughter of Sir Otho Markleham. Of course, if you were a Londoner, you would know all this, but as you’re not, I’ll tell you. Well, I am Sir Otho’s only daughter, and four years ago, when I was just eighteen, I ran away from home and married Lord Cecil Hamilton. He was a good man, but he had quarrelled with my father on a point of politics, and my father disapproved of the match. He disowned me as his daughter, though he said he would always continue the allowance I had had as a girl. I was glad of this, not only because Lord Hamilton, though a man of good fortune, was not a wealthy man, but also because it seemed to show my father had not entirely cast me off. But he forbade us to go to his house, and we went to Paris and lived there for a year. After one year of happy married life Cecil died, and since then my only aim in life has been to be reconciled to my father. But he will not have it, or at least he won’t have it unless I make the first overtures toward peace.”

“And won’t you?” cried Patty, in astonishment.

“Not I! I am not to blame. The two men quarrelled, and now that Cecil is gone, why should my father hold the feud against me? It is not my place to ask his pardon; I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You ran away from home,” said Patty, thinking only of the justice of the case, and quite forgetting that she was seeming to censure a titled English lady.

“Yes, but that was not wrong. Father knew that Cecil was a fine, honourable man, of an old family. He had no right to forbid my marriage because of a foolish personal disagreement.”

“Your mother?” said Patty.

“My mother died when I was a child,” said Lady Hamilton, and at once Patty felt a new bond of companionship.

“I lived alone with my father, in our great house in London, and I had a happy and uneventful life, until Cecil came. Since his death, I’ve longed so to go home to my father, and be at peace with him, but though many kind friends have tried to bring about a reconciliation, they haven’t been able to do so.”

“And so you live here alone at the Savoy?”

“Yes, with Mrs. Betham, who is really an old dear, though sometimes she grumbles terribly.”

“And do you go into society?”

“I’ve begun to go a little, of late. Cecil made me promise I’d never wear black dresses, so I’ve worn white only, ever since he died, and I suppose I always shall. That is, in the house. I have black street gowns. But I can’t seem to care for gay parties as I used to. I want father, and I want my home.”

“Is your father in London?”

“Oh, yes; he’s a Member of Parliament. But he’s of a stubborn and unyielding nature.”

“And so are you?”

“And so am I. Now, let’s drop the subject of myself for the present, while you sing for me. Will you?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Patty, warmly; “with more pleasure than I ever sang for any one else.”

CHAPTER IV
A FLORAL OFFERING

As the days went by, Patty and Lady Hamilton became close friends. Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield approved of the intimacy, for the elder woman’s influence was in every way good for Patty, and in return the girl brought sunshine and happiness into Lady Hamilton’s life.

They went together to concerts and picture exhibitions, but Patty could rarely persuade her friend to go to a social affair.

“It’s absurd, Lady Hamilton,” said Patty, one day, “to shut yourself up as you do! All London wants you, and yet you won’t go ’round and play pretty with them.”

Ignoring this outburst, Lady Hamilton only smiled, and said: “Do you know, Patty, I think it’s time you dropped my formal title, and called me by my first name. I’d love to have you do so.”

“I’ve often wondered what your first name is, but I haven’t the slightest idea. Tell me.”

“No, guess. What name do you think suits me?”

Patty considered.

“Well,” she said, at last, “I think it must be either Ethelfrida or Gwendolyn Gladys.”

Lady Hamilton laughed merrily. “Prepare yourself for a sudden shock,” she said. “I was named for my grandmother, Catharine.”

“Catharine! What an absurd name for you! You’re not even a Kate. But you are Lady Kitty, and I’ll call you that, if I may.”

“Indeed you may. Father used to call me Kitty, when I was a child, but as I grew older, I preferred my full name.”

“Lady Kitty is just right for you, and when you’re in the mood you’re a saucy puss. Now, listen, the reason for my invasion of your premises this morning is that I want you to go with me this afternoon to a tea on the Terrace of Parliament House.”

Patty’s tones were very persuasive, and she looked so daintily attractive in her fresh morning gown that few could have refused any request she might make.

Lady Hamilton in a soft, frilly white négligée, was sipping her coffee and looking over her letters when Patty had interrupted the process. She looked at her eager young guest with a slow, provoking smile, and said only:

“Nixy.”

“But why not?” said Patty, smiling too, for she knew the Englishwoman had learned the slangy word from herself. “You’d have a lovely time. It’s so beautiful there, and the people are always so cordial and pleasant.”

“But I don’t want to go.”

“But you ought to want to. You’re too young to give up the pomps and vanities of this world. How can I make you go?”

“You can’t.”

“I know it! That’s just the trouble with you. I never saw such a stubborn, self-willed, determined–”

“Pigheaded?”

“Yes! and stupidly obstinate thing as you are! So, there now!”

They both laughed, and then Lady Hamilton said more seriously, “Shall I tell you why I won’t go?”

“Yes, do, if you know, yourself.”

“I know perfectly. I won’t go to the Terrace because I’m afraid I’ll meet my father there.”

“For goodness’ sake! Is that the real reason? But you want to be reconciled to him!”

“Yes, but you don’t understand. We couldn’t have a ‘Come home and all will be forgiven’ scene on the Terrace, in sight of hundreds of people, so if I did see him, I should have to bow slightly, or cut him dead; it would depend on his attitude toward me which I did. Then the episode would merely serve to widen the breach, and it would break me up for days.”

“I can’t understand such conditions,” said Patty, earnestly. “Why, if I were at odds with my father, and I can’t even imagine such a thing, I’d rush at him and fling myself into his arms and stay there till everything was all right.”

“That’s just because you’re of a different temperament, and so is your father. My father is an austere, unbending man, and if I were on the Terrace and were to fling myself into his arms, he’d very likely fling me into the Thames.”

“You’d probably be rescued,” said Patty, gravely; “there’s always so much traffic.”

“Yes, but father wouldn’t jump in to rescue me, so I’d only spoil my gown for nothing. Give it up, dear, it’s a case outside your experience. Father and I are both too proud to make the first advance, and yet I really believe he wants me as much as I want him. He must be very lonely in the great house, with only the servants to look after him.”

“Perhaps he’ll marry again,” said Patty, thoughtfully; “my father did.”

“I wish he would, but I’ve no hope of that. Now, never mind about my troubles, tell me of your own. Who’s taking you to the tea?”

“Mrs. Hastings. But she isn’t giving it. We’re to sit at some Member’s table; I don’t know whose. The Merediths will be there, too. Tom and Grace, you know. I like them very much.”

“Yes, they’re nice children. I know them slightly. Patty, some day I’ll give a party for you, here in my rooms. How would you like that?”

“Oh, Lady Kitty, I’d love it! You’d have to come to that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, indeed, you couldn’t drive me away. Let’s have a children’s party. All dress as children, I mean; little children, or babies.”

“Just the thing! I always wanted to see a party like that. I’ve only heard of them. Can we have it soon?”

“Next week, I think. I’ll consult Mrs. Betham, and I think I can coax her ’round to it; though she’s bound to wet-blanket it at first.”

“Oh, yes, you can coax her, I know. How good you are to me! I do have beautiful times. Really too many for one girl. Honestly, Lady Kitty, do you think it’s right for me to lead such a butterfly life? I just fly about from one entertainment to another; and even if I’m at home, or alone, I always have a good time. Sometimes I think I’m a very useless member of this busy world.”

Lady Hamilton smiled kindly. “How old are you?” she said.

“I’ll be eighteen next month.”

“And you haven’t set the Thames on fire, or won the Victoria Cross yet? But you’re just at the age when your type of happy girlhood is often beset with over-conscientious scruples. Don’t give way to them, Patty. It is not your lot to do definite, physical good to suffering humanity, like a Red Cross nurse, or the Salvation Army. Nor is it necessary that you should work to earn your bread, like a teacher or a stenographer. But it is your duty, or rather your privilege, to shed sunshine wherever you go. I think I’ve never known any one with such a talent for spontaneous and unconscious giving-out of happiness. It is involuntary, which is its chiefest charm, but whoever is with you for a time is cheered and comforted just by the influence of your own gladness. This is honest talk, my child, and I want you to take it as I mean it. Don’t try to do this thing, that would spoil it all; but just remember that you do do it, and let that satisfy your desire to be a useful member of this busy world.”

“You’re such a dear,” said Patty, as she caressed her friend’s hand affectionately; “if that’s all true, and of course it is, since you say so, I’m very glad. But can’t I do something more definite, more voluntary?”

“Of course there are always opportunities for doing good,—organised charities and those things that everybody takes part in. But if you want to widen your own field of benefaction, simply know more people. Whether you know them socially or as casual acquaintances, you will almost invariably add happiness to their lives, though it be in the merest trifles. Now, I’m assuming that you have sense enough not to overdo this thing, and thrust yourself upon people who don’t want you.”

“Madam,” said Patty, in mock indignation, “you may trust me. I am an American!”

“You are indeed; and you have what is known as Yankee good sense, if you are a mere infant.”

“Eighteen is pretty old, I think; and you’re not so very ancient, yourself,” retorted Patty; “but I’m willing to sit at your feet and acquire wisdom.”

When dressed to go out that afternoon, Patty stopped at Lady Hamilton’s door to say good-bye.

“Come in, and let me see if you’ll pass muster. Yes, that frilly, flowered muslin is just right for the Terrace; and that hat with long streamers is truly pastoral.”

“What’s pastoral about the Terrace, pray?”

“Nothing but the ladies’ clothes, and the lamb-like demeanour of the M.P.’s.”

“I may see your father there.”

“You may. But he’ll be an exception to the lamb-like ones. Here, let me put these valley lilies in your belt. They rather suit your costume.”

“Oh, thank you; they’re beautiful. If I see your father, I’ll give him a spray and say you sent it.”

“Very well; he’ll then pitch you and the flowers all in the Thames together.” “Well, at least we’ll cause a sensation among the lambs. Good-by, Kitty lady.”

“Good-bye, little one. Have a good time, and come in to tell me about it when you return.”

The tea on the Terrace was a new delight. Patty had been through the Houses of Parliament before, but this was her first experience of that unique function known as the Terrace Tea.

The broad, beautiful space was crowded with tables, and the tables were crowded with people. Merry, chatting, laughing Londoners, Americans, and foreigners mingled in groups and drank tea together.

Mrs. Hastings and Patty were met by their host, Mr. Pauncefote, and escorted to a table, already surrounded by several people.

Patty felt greatly pleased when she found herself seated between Grace and Tom Meredith, and listened with interest as they designated various celebrated people who were strolling by.

“But, after all,” she said, at last, “Dukes and Duchesses don’t look very different from ordinary people.”

“Of course they don’t. Why should they? They aren’t any different,” said Tom. “Indeed, Miss Fairfield, I’ve vanity enough to believe you’d find me more interesting than some of the Dukes.”

“I’m sure you are,” laughed Patty, “but if I were introduced to a real Duke, I’d be so scared I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Now I call that too bad,” declared Tom, with an aggrieved look. “And, pray, why aren’t you scared when in my august society?”

“I am,” said Patty, dimpling, as she smiled at him, “only I’m successfully striving not to show my quaking fright.”

“That’s better. I hope the longer you know me, the more awed you’ll be of my,—of my–”

“Of your what?” calmly inquired his sister.

“’Pon my word, I don’t know,” confessed Tom, good-naturedly; “of my awesomeness, I suppose.”

“How do you like London?” said a loud voice, in the tones that are sometimes called stentorian, and Patty suddenly realised that her host was addressing her.

A bit embarrassed at finding the eyes of all at the table upon her, she answered, shyly: “I love it; it is so—so kind to me.”

“Bravo! Pretty good for an American,” shouted Mr. Pauncefote, who seemed unable to moderate his voice. “And which do you like best, the people or the show-places?”

“The people,” said Patty, her embarrassment lost sight of in a flash of mischief. “I like the Members of Parliament better than Parliament House.”

“Good! Good!” cried the portly M.P., striking the table with his fist until the cups rattled; “that’s true Yankee cleverness. You’re a good sort, my child. Are they all like you in America?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Patty, demurely; “are they all like you in England?”

Patty’s innocent air of inquiry robbed the speech of all effect of pertness, and the genial Mr. Pauncefote roared with delight.

“Ha, ha!” he cried; “all like me in England? No, my child, no! Heaven be praised, there are very few after my pattern.”

“That’s too bad,” said Patty. “I think your pattern is a good one.”

“It is,” said Tom Meredith. “If we had more statesmen after Mr. Pauncefote’s pattern, the House of Commons would be better off.”

This speech called forth applause from the other guests, and the host said, loudly: “Pshaw, pshaw!” but he looked greatly pleased.

When the tea was over and the party rose from the table, Mr. Pauncefote detained Patty for a moment’s chat, while the others broke up into smaller groups or wandered away.

“I want you to meet my daughter,” he was saying; “the young lady in gray over there, talking to Sir Otho.”

“Sir Otho who?” said Patty, quickly, forgetting to respond in regard to Miss Pauncefote.

“Sir Otho Markleham; see the large gentleman with gold-rimmed glasses. She is my youngest daughter, and I know she’d be glad to meet you.”

“I’d be delighted,” said Patty, but her attention centred on Sir Otho.

Could it be that was Lady Hamilton’s severe father? He did not look so obstinate as she had imagined him, but as she drew nearer, she observed the firm set of his square jaw and reversed her opinion.

Sir Otho was very tall and big, and his smoothly brushed hair was light brown without a trace of gray.

He wore closely-trimmed whiskers, of the style known as “mutton-chop,” and his cold gray eyes almost glittered as he looked through his glasses. The introduction to Miss Pauncefote implied also an introduction to Sir Otho, and in a moment Patty found herself chatting in a group of which Lady Kitty’s father was one.

There was something about the big man that awed her, and she naturally fell into conversation with Miss Pauncefote, while the two gentlemen talked together. But as they were all about to separate, and even after Sir Otho had said good-afternoon, Patty hesitated irresolutely for a second, and then turned back toward him again.

“Sir Otho,” she said, timidly.

“Well, ma’am, what is it?” was the response as he turned in surprise to look at her.

“I am very glad to meet you,” said Patty, and as soon as the words were uttered, she realised how absurd they were.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said the puzzled gentleman. He was very unresponsive, and showed in his face that he thought little of this exhibition of American forwardness.

“Especially so,” Patty went on, “because I know your daughter, Lady Hamilton.”

“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Sir Otho Markleham, the red blood dyeing his large face crimson, and his eyes fairly snapping with anger.

“Yes, I do,” went on Patty, resolved now to plunge in desperately, “and she sent you these flowers.”

Patty had previously detached two or three of the prettiest sprays of the lilies of the valley, and now held them out, with the air of one fulfilling a trust.

For a moment Sir Otho Markleham looked as if he would really like to pitch the American girl and her flowers into the river, and then, almost mechanically, he took the blossoms from Patty’s hand.

Then, with a straight, cold stare at her, he said, in a hard voice: “I have no daughter,” and after a stiff, formal bow, he walked away.