Patricia’s color deepened.  “I did—­grandmother; I thought you would like them—­they were,” Patricia caught herself up, doubting now the appropriateness of those “old-ladyish” flowers.

Fortunately Custard appeared at that moment, wagging ingratiatingly; and grandmother at once responded to his overtures with a friendliness that warmed not only the heart of Custard but of Custard’s small mistress.

Patricia went to bed that night with her thoughts rather in a whirl.  “I suppose,” she decided finally, “that she is one of those ’up-to-date grandmothers’ one reads about; anyhow, she’s a dear and I love her, and oh, Aunt Julia did behave beautifully about the punchbowl—­she seemed to appreciate what a delicate situation it was—­and I’ll never, never take it again without asking.”

On the whole, this “up-to-date grandmother” proved a most charming possession; a grandmother who took long walks with one, who played croquet with one, who planned delightful trips in town to shops and even to matinees.  And how delightful to know that one was the object of both envy and interest to the other girls; to be able to show the tiniest of enameled watches, straight from Paris; to have a grandmother who had actually been in Egypt, and had seen the king and queen of England.  Patricia held her head very high in these days.

Yet at times there was an odd, barely defined feeling of something like regret at the bottom of Patricia’s heart.

This new grandmother was the best of chums and companions, but somehow it was hard to realize that she was really a grandmother.  And before Patricia’s inward gaze would pass the picture of a little white-capped old lady, quietly knitting at one corner of the fireplace; an old lady whose big Dutch pocket held an unfailing supply of ginger nuts and peppermint drops, whose stories were all of those far-off days when “I was a little girl.”

But only at times; as a rule these days were too full for Patricia to find time for inner visions.

“You’re the luckiest girl, Patricia Kirby,” Patricia’s particular chum, Nell Hardy, declared one morning on the way to school.  “I think Mrs. Cory’s perfectly lovely; she always acts as if she was ever so glad to see you.”

Patricia swung her strap of books thoughtfully.  “Daddy says she has a beautiful manner.  I’m going to be just like her.”

Nell’s quick glance was hardly flattering.  “When?”

“Anyhow, she’s my grandmother!” Patricia retorted; she shook out her short skirts, if only she could have silk linings.  Clothes were beginning to take on new meanings for Patricia.

“We’d better hurry,” Nell said, “or we’ll be late.”

“Grandmother never really hurries.”

“Maybe she did when she was going to school; there’s the bell now!”

“Bet I’ll be there first,” Patricia said, darting ahead.

But she wasn’t; it seemed as if all the babies and dogs in town chose that particular moment to get right in her path, avoiding with equal skill Nell’s eager rush.  What with picking up a baby here and stopping to speak to one there—­Patricia never could get by babies—­Patricia reached the schoolhouse just too late to join her line and had to wait outside until the opening exercises were over.