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Page 41
"The house party is upon us," she wrote, "and, though they're
really very nice, they ARE a little of the west, westy. But
there's only one girl, Daisy Dow, who's MUCH that way, and I
rather think I can manage her. But already she has warned me not
to interfere with her young man! As if I would!"
Just here, Patty's cheeks grew red again, and she changed the
subject of her epistolary progress.
"The baby is a perfect darling, and her parents are very nice
people. TERRIBLY devoted to the infant, but of course that's to be
expected. Roger is a comfort. It's so nice to have an old friend
here among all these strangers. Oh, and there's an artist who, I
know, spells his art with a big A. He wants to paint me as 'Cherry
Ripe' or something, I forget what. But I know his portraits will
look just like magazine covers. Though,--I suppose I AM rather of
that type myself. Oh, me! I wish I were a tall, dark beauty, with
melting brown eyes and midnight tresses, instead of a tow-headed,
doll-faced thing. But then, as the poet says, 'We women cannot
choose our lot.' I'm in for a good time, there's no doubt about
that. We've parties and picnics and pageants piled up mountain
high. So if I don't write again very soon, you'll know it's
because I'm a Social Butterfly for the time being, and these are
my Butterfly Days. Aunt Adelaide is rather nicer than when I last
wrote. She gets on her 'company manners,' and that makes her more
amiable."
"My goodness gracious!"
This last phrase was spoken aloud, not written, for the low, open
window, near which Patty sat writing, was suddenly invaded by a
laughing face and a pair of broad, burly shoulders, and Big Bill's
big voice said, "Hello, you pretty little poppet!"
CHAPTER X
JUST A SHORT SPIN
"Stop! Look! Listen!" cried Patty, gaily, as the unabashed intruder
calmly seated himself on the broad, low window-sill. "Do you
consider it good manners to present yourself in this burglarious
fashion?"
"Well, you see, my room opens on this same veranda,--indeed the
veranda seems to run all around the house on this story,--and so I
thought I'd walk about a bit. Then I chanced to spy you, and--
well, I'm still spying. Is this your dinky boudoir? How fussy it
is."
"I like it so," said Patty, smiling.
"Of course you do. You're fussy yourself."
"I am not! I'm NOT fussy!"
"Oh, I don't mean that the way you think I do. I mean you're all
dressed fussy, with pink ribbons and lace tassels and furbelows."
"Yes; I do love frilly clothes. Now, I suppose your ideal girl
wears plain tailor-made suits, and stiff white collars, and small
hats without much trimming,--just a band and a quill."
"Say, that's where you're 'way off! I like to see girls all
dollied up in squffly lace over-skirts,--or whatever you call
'em,--with dinky little bows here and there."
"Is this frock all right, then?" asked Patty, demurely, knowing
that her summer afternoon costume was of the very type he had
tried to describe.
"Just the ticket! I'm not much on millinery, but you look like an
apple blossom trimmed with sunshine."
"Why, you're a poet! Only poets talk like that. I doubt if Mr.
Cromer could say anything prettier."
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