“She’s a good enough kiddy,” said the proud young father, trying to hide his own enthusiasm.
“Now, Jim,” cried his wife, “you know perfectly well you’re a bigger idiot about that child than I am! Why, would you believe, Mona—”
“There, there, Adele, if you’re going to tell anecdotes of my parental devotion, I’m going to run away! Come on, Farnsworth, let’s go for a stroll, and talk over old times.”
The two men walked off together, and the party generally broke up. Most of them went to their rooms to rest or dress for dinner, and Patty concluded that she would grasp the opportunity to write a letter to Nan, a task which she enjoyed, but rarely found time for.
“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!”
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.”