“Oh, you are a poet.”
“I am a poet, but I didn’t write that. However, it was only because the other fellow got ahead of me.”
“Who was he? Who wrote it?”
“I’ll tell you Friday night. Come early, won’t you?” “No; I always get to a party late.”
“Don’t be too late. I want to play to you. And will you sing?”
“Mercy, gracious! I might go to a party without being invited, but I can’t sing without being asked. You tell Marie I’m coming, will you?”
“You bet I will. What shall you wear?”
“What’s your favourite colour?”
“Red is becoming to brunettes; but I haven’t any red evening gown. How about yellow?”
“All right, wear yellow. I shall adore you in any colour.”
“Well; perhaps I’ll come, and perhaps I won’t. Good-night.”
Patty hung up the receiver with a sudden click, and Mr. Kit Cameron was left very much in doubt as to whether the whole thing was a joke or not.
On the night of the musicale at Marie Homer’s, her talented cousin arrived long before any guests were expected.
“I couldn’t wait, Aunt Frances,” he said, as Mrs. Homer greeted him. “I’m so impatient to see My Girl.”
Kit had told the Homers of the telephone conversations, because he was so anxious to find out his lady’s name. Of course, he had not told all they said, and from his incoherent ravings about a black-haired beauty Marie never guessed he could mean Patty.
“You’re a foolish boy, Kit,” said his Aunt.
“I don’t believe that girl is any one we know, but is some mischievous hoyden who is leading you a dance. You won’t see her to-night,—if you ever do.”
“Then I shall think up the easiest death possible, and die it,” declared Kit, cheerfully. “Why, you know, Aunt Frances, I never took any interest in a girl before, except of course Marie and Bee, but this girl is so different from everybody else in the world. Her voice is like a chime of silver bells,—and her laugh——”
“There, there, Kit, I haven’t time to listen to your rhapsodies! You’re here altogether too early, and you’ll have to excuse me, for I have some household matters to look after. Marie isn’t quite dressed yet, so you’ll have to amuse yourself for awhile. Play some sentimental music on your violin, if that fits your mood.”
With a kindly smile at her nephew, Mrs. Homer bustled away, and Kit was left alone in the music-room.
He played some soft, low music for a time, and then Marie came in.
“You’re an old goose, Kit,” she remarked, affectionately, “to think that mysterious girl of yours will be here to-night. There isn’t anybody who knows me well enough to come without an invitation, that I haven’t already invited. I’ve added to my list of invitations until it now numbers about thirty, and that’s all the really musical friends I have. If this girl of yours sings as well as you say, she’s probably a soubrette or a chorus girl.”