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CHAPTER V
MISS YANKEE DOODLE

“You didn’t, really!” exclaimed Lady Hamilton, as Patty gleefully described giving the flowers to Sir Otho Markleham.

“But I did, Kitty, and truly, he was mad enough to pitch me into that yellow muddy old river. I greatly admire his self-control in not really doing it. But what eyes he has! So gray and steely, they cut right through me! And he just said, tragically, ‘I have no daughter,’ and stalked away. But—and this is the main thing—he kept the flowers!”

“How do you know?”

“I watched him. I fully expected he’d fling them straight over Parliament House, but he didn’t. He didn’t even throw them on the stone floor of the Terrace, and gr-r-rind them ’neath his iron heel! I can’t say that he put them in his button-hole, for his back was toward me, but I know he kept them.”

“Oh, Patty, you are a silly! You think you’ve gone far toward healing the family feud of the Marklehams. But you haven’t. My father gave the whole episode no thought at all, unless it was to think of you as an impertinent child.”

“Well, it was a wedge,” said Patty, doggedly, “and if I ever get another chance at him, I’ll hammer it in.”

“No, don’t, Patty dear; you mean well, I know, but you don’t know father’s disposition. If he thought you were an intermediary, he’d be more stubborn than ever.”

“Huh!” said Patty, more expressively than politely; “I’m not going to make any trouble. Trust your Aunt Patty for that!”

Lady Hamilton laughed, as she always did at Patty’s funny American phrases, and the subject of Sir Otho was dropped.

“Better not mix yourself up in other people’s quarrels,” said Mr. Fairfield, when Patty told him about it. “Your motive is a good one, but an Englishman is not apt to brook interference from an outsider, especially an American.”

“Oh, pshaw, Fred; Patty won’t do any harm,” said Nan. “Patty’s tact is a match for any English temper, and if she could bring about a reconciliation, I’d be so glad for that sweet Lady Hamilton.”

“All right; I give in. When you two are against me, I hold up my hands.”

“We’re not against you, Daddy,” said Patty, smiling fondly at her father. “You’re on our side, only you don’t quite realise it.”

“I told you she had tact,” laughed Nan, “and she grows cleverer every day; don’t you, Stepdaughter?”

“Yes, Stepmother,” replied Patty, gazing at Nan in mock adoration; “since I have you for a model, how could I do otherwise?”

“You’re a pair of sillies,” said Mr. Fairfield, laughing at their nonsense, “and in a vain endeavour to improve your minds, I think I’ll read aloud to you.”

“Oh, goody!” cried Patty, for they both loved to hear Mr. Fairfield read. “And mayn’t I ask Lady Kitty to come in? She’ll sit still as a mouse, I know.”

“Certainly, my child; ask any one you like. If you see any people in the corridors, bring them back with you. Perhaps the elevator man will come.”

“’Deed he won’t be asked,” said Patty, indignantly. “I just want my sweet, lovely Lady Kitty.”

The sweet, lovely lady was pleased to come, and did indeed sit still as a mouse, listening to Mr. Fairfield’s fine reading.

Then Patty sang one or two of her newest songs, and then Nan declared they must all go down to the Grill Room for a Welsh Rabbit.

This plan enchanted Patty, and after a moment’s hesitation, Lady Hamilton agreed. So the evening proved a merry little festivity, and Patty went to bed healthily tired, but healthily happy.

Bob Hartley did not forget his promise to ask Patty to the Garden Party at Regent’s Park, and Patty gladly accepted the invitation.

“The only thing that bothers me,” she said to Nan, “is that the Hartleys don’t seem to have much money, and at a Charity Garden Party there are so many ways to spend, that I fear I’ll be a burden to them. It makes me awfully uncomfortable, and yet I can’t offer to pay for myself. And with those young men present, I can’t offer to pay for the whole party.”

“No,” agreed Nan. “But you might do something yourself. Invite them all to be your guests at some especial side-show, or booth. There are often such opportunities.”

“I hope there will be. The Hartleys are a funny kind of poor. They have a good apartment in London, and their country place is fine. They have old servants, and keep a carriage, and all that, and yet they never seem to have spending money.”

“English people are often like that. The keeping up of an establishment comes first with them, and little personal comforts afterward.”

“That isn’t my idea of economy,” said Patty, decidedly; “I’d rather spend all I want on flowers and books and pretty hats, and go without a butler and a footman and even a team of horses.”

“You can’t judge, because you’ve always had whatever you want.”

“Of course; because father is indulgent and has plenty of money. But if he hadn’t, I’d be just as happy, living in a plainer way.”

“Yes, Patty, I believe you would,” and Nan looked at the girl affectionately. “Well, do your best to help the Hartleys financially this afternoon without offending them.”

“Ah, that’s just the trouble. They’re so dreadfully proud they won’t accept so much as a glass of lemonade from one who is their guest.”

“Try it, and see. It may not be so difficult as you think.”

So Patty went gaily off to the Garden Party. Mrs. Hartley called for her in her carriage. Mabel was with her, and they were to meet the boys at the park.

It was a beautiful drive, in the open victoria, along the busy streets of the city, and then on out to the green slopes of Regent’s Park.

The portion of the park devoted to the Garden Party was gay with booths and flower-stands, tents and arbours, and catch-penny shows of all sorts.

Sinclair and Robert were awaiting them, and also another young Englishman, whom Bob introduced as Mr. Lawton. The latter was a typical Briton, with a slight drawl, and a queer-looking monocle in his right eye.

“Awfully jolly to meet you,” he exclaimed, as he shook Mrs. Hartley’s hand, and bowed formally to the girls.

He fascinated Patty, he was so exactly like the young Englishmen pictured in Punch, and she waited to hear him say “Bah Jove!” But he didn’t say it, he contented himself with “My word!” by way of expletive, and though it didn’t seem to mean anything, it was apparently useful to him.

“You must jolly well let me be your guide,” he declared; “Mrs. Hartley and I will lead and the rest of you will follow wherever we go. First, we make the grand tour.”

This meant joining a long procession that were sauntering along a board walk, on either side of which were settees filled with people.

Patty, with Sinclair, followed the leaders, and Mabel and Bob followed them.

But their progress was slow, for continually some of the party recognised friends seated alongside, and stopped to speak to them. Patty was introduced so often that she became bewildered, and soon stopped trying to remember who was who.

“You’re getting jolly well fagged,” said Mr. Lawton, suddenly noticing her expression. “Now, we’ll stop this merry-go-round and adjourn to the tea tent.”

This they did, and were soon comfortably seated round a tea table.

“Great show, isn’t it?” said Bob, enthusiastically. “And you haven’t seen half of it yet. There’s fortune-telling, and Punch and Judy, and the hat-trimming contest, and I don’t know what beside.”

Sinclair adroitly paid the tea bill, before Mr. Lawton could do so, though the latter tried.

“Never mind, old fellow,” he cried, “I’ll get even with you! I hereby invite you all to supper at six o’clock.”

“We’re pleased to accept,” said Patty, promptly; “and I hereby invite you all to the play, or whatever it is, given by the Stagefright Club. I think that’s such a lovely name for a dramatic club. Can’t we go at once?”

Mrs. Hartley looked a little disturbed at Patty’s invitation, but did not demur, and tea being over, they all went toward the tent where the play was to be given. Patty managed to walk ahead with Mr. Lawton, this time, and when they reached the big tent, she offered him her little gold chain-purse, saying, quietly, “Won’t you see to the tickets, please?”

“Trust me,” said Mr. Lawton, and taking Patty’s purse, he bought seats for them all. It was gracefully done, and they all went in in gay spirits and without a trace of embarrassment, thanks to Patty’s tact.

The play was very funny. Though only a trifling farce, it was written by professionals, for the benefit of the charity, and was played by the clever amateurs who had chosen such an odd name for their club. The situations in the play were screamingly funny, and Patty shook with laughter as she listened to the jokes and the merry by-play.

“Hist, she comes!” declared a weird figure in a sepulchral voice, as he waited in the middle of the stage.

“Hist, she comes!”

But nobody came.

“That’s her cue,” he muttered; “what can be the matter? I say,” he cleared his throat and spoke louder: “Hist, she comes!” As the expected entrance was still delayed, he only said: “Well, she ought to be hissed when she does come!” And calmly sat down to wait for her, amid the applause of the audience.

The short playlet soon came to an end, and still shaking with laughter, the party went out again into the beautiful atmosphere which is found on a spring day in Regent’s Park.

“Now, my children,” said Mrs. Hartley, “I simply cannot walk about any more. I’m going to sit in one of those chairs yonder, for I see some people I know over there. You can amuse yourselves with Punch and Judy, or Ring Toss or whatever you like, and come back to me in an hour or so. Sinclair, look after the little ones, won’t you?”

It was a great joke that Sinclair, the oldest Hartley boy, should look after the others. He had reached the age of twenty, and was much more grave and dignified than Bob and Grace. Mrs. Hartley often declared she could even trust him to match samples for her, so careful was he. So the young people wandered away and spent a delightful hour looking at the beautiful or grotesque sights that adorned the fair.

Patty could not do much financially, but under cover of giving to charity, she bought pretty souvenirs for Mabel and Mrs. Hartley, and laughingly invited the group to be photographed by a Camera Fiend.

This personage was clothed in red, and with black horns and Mephistophelean countenance was made to look as much like a fiend as possible. With outlandish hoots and yells, he posed the group and took several snapshots, which they were to call for later.

As they concluded it was nearly time to drift back to Mrs. Hartley, Patty noticed a gentleman who stood at a little distance, looking at her intently.

“Who’s your friend, Patty?” asked Mabel. “Do you know him?”

“Yes,” said Patty, slowly. “He’s Sir Otho Markleham.”

“So he is,” said Bob. “I’ve seen him often, but I don’t know him personally.”

Sir Otho, still looking at Patty, took a few steps toward her, and then paused irresolutely.

“Please excuse me,” said Patty to the others, “I think I’ll go speak to him for a minute.”

“Do,” said Mr. Lawton; “we’ll wait for you right here.”

Following an impulse, Patty walked directly toward Sir Otho, who looked as if he would like to run away.

“How do you do?” she said, pleasantly, as they met.

“Quite well,” he said, but there was no responsiveness in his manner. “Do you wish to speak to me?”

Now after he had first advanced toward Patty, this was a strange question, but she bravely took up the burden of conversation.

“Well, yes,” she said, smiling at him prettily; “I want to ask you how you are enjoying the Garden Party.”

“I never enjoy anything,” he returned, but his face was sad now, rather than angry.

“Oh, what a pity!” said Patty, involuntarily, “and you have such powers of enjoyment, too.”

“How do you know that, Miss Yankee Doodle?”

Patty didn’t altogether like the name, or rather the tone in which it was said, but she was determined not to get piqued. So she said:

“Oh, because you’re such a big, healthy, hearty-looking man; you ought to laugh most of the time.”

“Ought I, indeed? But you see I never have anything to laugh at.”

At this Patty laughed outright.

“Why, the world is full of things to laugh at,—and you’re not blind.”

“No, but I don’t feel like laughing.”

“Don’t you ever even feel like smiling?”

“Not often.”

“Didn’t you feel like smiling just a little bit of a happy smile, when I gave you those flowers the other day? Those flowers—from Kitty.”

Sir Otho’s face grew dark.

“How dare you mention her name to me?” he cried. “You are a saucy minx! Go away!”

“I won’t be sent away like that,” declared Patty, looking haughty now. “I’m no child to be scolded for nothing. How dare you speak to me like that? What do you think I am?”

Sir Otho turned red with rage. He choked and stammered and looked like a choleric old gentleman, as indeed he was.

“I think you’re an impertinent Yankee. What do you think I am?”

Patty looked him squarely in the eye. Her chance had come, and she did not flinch.

“I think,” she said, looking steadfastly at him, “I think you’re an obstinate, stubborn, selfish, cruel old—Pighead!”

She confessed, afterward, that at that moment she fully expected the irate old man to strike her. But he did not. Instead, he looked at her just a moment in amazement, and then burst into peals of laughter.

Surprised beyond measure, but unable to resist the infectious merriment, Patty laughed too.

“Oh, Miss Yankee Doodle,” said Sir Otho, wiping his eyes, “you are most astonishing. The strange part is, you are quite right. I am a stubborn old Pighead, but how did you know it? Do I wear my heart on my sleeve to that extent?”

“Have you a heart?” asked Patty, so gravely that Sir Otho again roared with laughter.

“And yet,” said Patty, thoughtfully, seeing that frankness pleased the old man, “and yet, no one with such a sense of humour as you seem to have can be wholly bad.”

“Oh, thank you! So I’m not wholly bad? Well, that’s a comfort; I always thought I was. But your friends are looking this way. I think they want you to rejoin them.”

“In a moment,” said Patty. “Sir Otho,—won’t you—please—send a flower back to my friend, Lady Hamilton?”

“I would do much for any friend of yours,” said the strange old man, very gravely, and taking a few steps to a nearby flower stand, he bought a bunch of sweet peas, and said, carelessly, “Give her those, if you like.”

Then formally escorting Patty back to her friends, he raised his hat, and walked quickly away.

CHAPTER VI
HERENDEN HALL

“There, Kitty lady,” said Patty, as she reached the Savoy on her return from the Garden Party, “there’s a nosegay from your affectionate father.”

Lady Hamilton stared at the bunch of sweet peas that Patty held out to her.

“My word!” she exclaimed, “you are the most amazing child! I suppose he sent them to me just about as much as I sent him those valley lilies you took to him the other day.”

Lady Kitty guessed so near the truth that Patty felt a little crestfallen.

“It was more than that,” she said. “I asked him to send some flowers to you, and he bought these purposely.”

“Did he select sweet peas, himself?”

“Yes.”

“That means something, then, Patty dear; for father well knows my fondness for these flowers. Well, you’re a dear, good little girl to try to heal the breach, but I can’t feel much encouragement. Father is too old and too obstinate ever to forgive me.”

“And you’re too young and too obstinate to go and beg his forgiveness!”

“Indeed I am! Fancy my meekly returning, like a prodigal daughter, when I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“You don’t deserve a reconciliation,” cried Patty; “you’re a hard-hearted little thing,—for all you look so soft and amiable.”

“Yes,” said Lady Kitty, demurely; “I inherited my father’s disposition.”

“Indeed, you did; and you’ll grow more like him every day you live, if you don’t try to be more forgiving.”

“I believe you’re right, Patty; and perhaps some day I will try. But now let me tell you what’s been happening. While you were away, I had a call from that very charming stepmother of yours. And this was the burden of her visit. It seems that she and your father are invited to spend the week-end at a country house, and the question was, where to pack you away for safe-keeping while they’re gone.”

“And they’re going to let me stay with you!” exclaimed Patty, clasping her hands and assuming an ecstatically happy expression.

“Well, Mrs. Nan seemed to think that I could keep you in order, though I’m not so sure of it myself. But the strange part is, I also am invited for this same week-end to a most delightful country house, and I have already accepted.”

Patty’s face fell.

“What is to become of poor little me?” she said. “I don’t want to stay with Mrs. Betham.”

“No; I’ve a plan for you. And it’s this. I want to take you with me to Herenden Hall, where I’m going, and,—Mrs. Nan says I may.”

“Oh, Kitty! You duck! How perfectly lovely!” Patty flew at her friend, and nearly strangled her in a spasmodic embrace.

“You see,” went on Lady Hamilton, when she had regained her breath, “I’m so well acquainted with the Herendens, that I can ask an invitation for you; and though you’re not really ‘out’ yet, it will give you a glimpse of the nicest kind of English country-house life.”

“It’s great!” declared Patty. “I’m wild with excitement. But I care more about being with you than I do about the house-party.”

“You won’t when you get there. They’re really charming people, and the Hall is one of the finest old estates in England.”

“Shall I have to have some new frocks?”

“We’ll look over your wardrobe, and see. I fancy the ones you already have will do. You know you’ll be looked upon as scarcely more than a schoolgirl, and you must wear simple, frilly muslins and broad-leafed hats.”

“I can even live through that! I don’t care what I wear if I’m with you. Three whole days! Will it be three days, Kitty?”

“Three days or more. If they politely ask us to remain a day or two longer we might do so. They’re old friends of mine, do you see? And I haven’t been there for years, so they’ll be glad to see us.”

“To see you, you mean. They don’t know me, so how can they be glad to see me?”

“Oh, you must,—what is your idiotic American phrase? You must ‘make good’!”

“I will,” said Patty, laughing to hear the phrase from an Englishwoman, and then she ran away to her own apartment, to talk over affairs with Nan.

“It’s a great piece of good fortune,” said Nan, “that you’re such good friends with Lady Hamilton, for Fred and I couldn’t take you with us, and what would have become of you?”

“Oh, I always land on my feet,” returned Patty, “I must have been born under a lucky star.”

“I believe you were, Pattykins.”

“And won’t I have the time of my life at Herenden Hall–”

“Oh, Patty, Patty, you must stop using slang. They’ll never ask you to Herenden Hall again if you behave like a wild Indian.”

“But you see, Stepmother, they look upon me as an infant anyhow, so I may as well have some fun.”

“But don’t be a hoyden, and do remember that American slang isn’t admired over here.”

“Yas’m; I’ll be good. And I’ll say ‘Really?’ and ‘Only fancy!’ till they’ll think I’m the daughter of a hundred Earls.”

“I’m not at all worried about your manners,” said Nan, serenely. “You usually behave pretty well, but you will talk American instead of English.”

“Well, I’ll try to make myself understood, at all events. And you’re going to have a lovely time, too, aren’t you? Isn’t it fun! I do like to have all my friends as happy as I am. I suppose you and father will be like two young turtle-doves off on your honeymoon trip.”

“Oh, we’re always that, even when there’s a great, big girl like you around to make us seem old.”

“Well, if you behave as well as you look, I won’t be ashamed of you.” Patty gazed critically at Nan, and then added, “Though your nose does seem to turn up more than it used to.”

Whereupon Nan threw a sofa-pillow at her, which Patty caught and stuffed behind her own curly head.

The Saturday of their departure was a beautiful, bright day, and it was about noon when Patty and Lady Hamilton, accompanied by the latter’s maid, took the train from Victoria Station.

It was a long ride to their destination in Kent, and not an especially interesting one, but Patty, in the companionship of her dear friend, was entirely happy. They chatted gaily as the train rolled from one English town to another. At Robertsbridge they had to change to a funny little railroad, which had the strangest cars Patty had ever seen.

They were almost like freight cars, with benches along the sides. There were no tickets, and presently the guard came in to collect their fares, as if in a street-car.

Moreover the luggage had been tumbled in without check or paster, and Patty wondered if anybody ever could pick out their own again.

“Your regular first-class coaches are funny enough,” she said to Lady Hamilton, “but they are comfortable. This box we’re in is like a cattle pen.”

“Oh, no,” laughed Lady Hamilton; “this isn’t bad at all. You see it’s only a tiny branch road, running to some little hamlets, and it’s not much used. There are only about two trains each way every day.”

This gave Patty a different idea of the little railroad, and she began to feel a more personal interest in it. They rolled slowly through the hop-growing country, and though the scenery was not grand, it was picturesque. Patty said it was like a panorama of “The Angelus.” They reached their station at about five o’clock, and found a fine open barouche awaiting them, and a wagon for their trunks.

The footman greeted them deferentially, and asked them to pick out their luggage from the lot that had been dumped on the station platform.

“I can’t see either of my trunks,” said Patty. “So I suppose I’d better take the ones I like best of these others.”

“Nonsense,” said Lady Hamilton; “yours must be here somewhere. Look around, Marie; you know Miss Fairfield’s boxes.”

“Yes, my Lady; but they are not here.”

Sure enough, they weren’t there, and as Patty was certain they had been put on the train, she concluded they had been carried on.

“What can I do?” she cried. “Can we telephone to the next station and have them sent back?”

But in that small station, merely a tiny box, there was no telephone.

The impassive coachman and footman from Herenden Hall seemed to have no advice to offer, so there was nothing to do but to proceed to the house.

Patty was distressed at the outlook.

“Oh, Kitty,” she said; “I can’t go to dinner at all! Of course I couldn’t appear in this travelling costume, and I’ll have to put on one of your négligées, and eat dinner all alone in my room!”

The prospect was appalling, but neither of them could think of any help for it.

“Has Lady Herenden any daughters about my age?” Patty asked, after a few moments’ thought.

“No, indeed. She and Lord Herenden have no children. But if there are any young girls there as guests, you might borrow a frock for to-night. Surely they’ll get your things by to-morrow.”

They drove into the park, through great gates, and past various lodges. The wonderful old trees waved above their heads; the marvellous lawns stretched away in rolling slopes; and the well-kept road wound along, now over a bridge, now under an arch until they paused at the noble old entrance of Herenden Hall.

Liveried servants seemed to appear, as if by magic, from all directions at once. Dogs came, barking a noisy welcome, and, following Lady Hamilton across the terrace and into the great entrance hall, Patty found herself being presented to a lovely young woman, almost as beautiful as Lady Hamilton herself.

“You must be the greatest chums,” Lady Hamilton was saying, “for Miss Fairfield is one of my dearest friends, and I want you to adore each other.”

“We will!” said Lady Herenden and Patty, at the same moment, and then they all laughed, and the guests were at once shown to their rooms.

After a bewildering route through several branching halls, Patty found that to her had been assigned a large and pleasant room, which looked out upon the rose-garden. On one side it communicated with Lady Hamilton’s room, and on the other opened into a dainty dressing-room and bath. It was all enchanting, and Patty’s gaze rested admiringly upon the chintz draperies and Dresden ornaments, when she heard a tap at her door. Answering, she found a trim maid, who courtesied and said: “I’m Susan, Miss. Will you give me the keys of your boxes, and I’ll unpack them.”

Patty almost laughed at this casual request, in the face of what seemed to her a tragedy.

“Susan,” she said, “here are the keys, but you can’t unpack my boxes for they haven’t come.”

“Lor’, Miss; they must be downstairs. I’ll have them sent up.”

“No—wait, Susan; they’re not downstairs. They didn’t come on the train.”

“Lor’, Miss, whatever will you do?”

The girl’s eyes grew big and troubled. Here was a dreadful situation indeed! Already Susan felt drawn toward the pretty young American girl, and she was aghast at the outlook of a dinner party with no party frock.

“I can’t go to dinner at all, Susan,” said Patty, dejectedly. “You must bring me a tray up here—though I don’t feel like eating.”

“Not go to dinner, Miss? Oh, what a pity! It’s a grand dinner to-night. The Earl of Ruthven is here, and it’s one of her ladyship’s greatest dinners of the season.”

The good Susan looked so concerned, and her face was so anxious, that it went straight to Patty’s heart. To her mind there came a vivid and tantalising remembrance of her exquisite dinner frock, of white chiffon, embroidered with tiny sprays of blossoms—a soft sash and shoulder-knots—one of the loveliest dresses she had ever had, and with a sob she threw herself on to the couch and indulged in a few foolish but comforting tears.

“There, there, Miss,” said Susan, sympathisingly, “don’t ee take on so. Maybe we can find summat for ee.”

When Susan was excited or troubled, she lapsed into her old dialect, which she was striving to outgrow.

“You can’t find anything, I know,” said Patty, sitting up, and looking the picture of woe. “There are no very young ladies in the house, are there, Susan?”

“No, Miss, none so young as yourself, nor near it.”

“And I can’t wear this,” went on Patty, looking at the silk blouse that was part of her travelling gown.

“Lor’ no, Miss; not to a dinner!”

“Then what?”

“Then what, indeed, Miss!”

Patty and Susan faced each other, at last in a full realisation of the hopelessness of the situation, when, after a light tap at the door, Lady Hamilton came in.

She laughed outright at the tragic attitude of the two, and knew at once what they were troubled about.

“Listen to me, Pattypet,” she said. “Am I your fairy godmother, or am I not?”

“You are,” said Patty, with an air of conviction, and feeling sure that Lady Hamilton was about to help her out of her troubles, somehow.

“Well, I’ve carefully considered the case. I’ve sent Marie to canvass the house for clothes suitable for a mademoiselle of seventeen.”

“Nearly eighteen,” murmured Patty.

“It doesn’t matter. There isn’t what’s known as a ‘misses’ costume’ beneath this roof. Now, I simply refuse to let you be absent from this dinner. It will be both a pleasure and an education to you to see this especial kind of a formal function, and probably you’ll not often have a chance. They’ve sent a man and a wagon over to the next station, several miles away for your boxes; that’s the way they do things here. But he can’t get back until long after the dinner hour. So listen, to my command, dictum, fiat—call it what you please, but this is what you’re to do.”

“I’ll do anything you say, Kitty Lady, if it’s to go to bed at once, and sleep soundly till morning.”

“Nothing of the sort. You must and shall attend this dinner. And—you’re going to wear one of my gowns!”

“Yours?”

“Yes. We’re so nearly the same size that it will fit you quite well enough. I’ve picked out the simplest one, a white Irish point. It’s cut princess, but all my gowns are. I’m sure Marie can make it fit you perfectly, with a few pins or a stitch here and there.”

“Oh, it will fit well enough, but, Kitty, won’t I be the grown-up! I’ve never worn a real train in my life!”

“Of course it’s a lot too old for you, and truly, I hate to have you appear in a gown like that. But what else can we do? I won’t let you miss the dinner—and after all, it doesn’t matter so much. After this visit I doubt if you’ll ever see these people again, and let them think you’re five or six years older than you are. Who cares?”

“I don’t,” said Patty, gleefully. “I think it will be fun. I’ll have my hair piled high on my head. Can you do it for me, Sarah?”

“Oh, yes, Miss. I’m a hair-dresser and I’m that glad you’re going to dinner.”