“Oh, I don’t want him at my feet.  And I don’t want him to fall in love with me.  I hate that sort of thing!  I want him for a nice, chummy, comrade friend, and if I can’t have him that way, I don’t want him at all.  There’s Philip and Kenneth now; they’ve always been so nice.  But lately they’ve taken to making sheep’s eyes at me and flinging out bits of foolishness here and there that make me tired!  A debutante’s life is not a happy one!”

Patty drew such a long, deep sigh, that Nan burst into laughter.

“I would feel sorry for you, Patty,” she said, “but I can’t help thinking that you’re quite able to look out for yourself.”

“’Deed I am!  When they talk mush, I just giggle at ’em.  It brings ’em down pretty quick from their highfalutin nonsense!”

The two were sitting in Patty’s boudoir, which was such a bright, sunny room that many a morning hour was pleasantly passed together there by these two friends.  Patty was fortunate in having a stepmother so in sympathy with her pursuits and pleasures, and Nan was equally fortunate in having warm-hearted, sunny-natured Patty with her.

Jane came in, bringing an enormous box from a florist.

“My prophetic soul!” cried Patty.  “My efforts were not in vain!  I feel it in my funnybone that my latest Prince Charming has sent me a posy.”

Nor was she wrong.  The box contained a bewildering array of spring flowers.  Delicate blossoms of jonquils, hyacinths, lilacs, daffodils, and other dainty, fragile flowers that breathed of spring.

“Aren’t they lovely!” And Patty buried her face in the fragrant mass of bloom.

“Here’s a card,” said Nan, picking up a white envelope.

Patty drew out Mr. Cameron’s card, and on it was written:  “To Princess Poppycheek; that they may tell all that I may not speak.”

“Now that’s a real nice sentiment,” Patty declared; “you see, it doesn’t commit him to anything, and yet it sounds pretty.  Oh, I shall end by adoring that young man!  Bring me some bowls and things, please, Jane; I want to arrange this flower garden myself.”

Jane departed with the box and papers, and returned with a tray, on which were several bowls and vases filled with water.

Patty always enjoyed arranging flowers, and she massed them in the bowls, with taste and skill as to color and arrangement.

“There!” she said, as she finished her task; “they do look beautiful, though I say it as shouldn’t.  Now, I think I shall sit me down and write a sweet gushing note of thanks, while I’m in the notion.  For I’ve a lot on to-day, and I can’t devote much time to this particular suitor.”

“Suitor is a slang word, Patty; you oughtn’t to use it.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee! if I didn’t use any slang, I couldn’t talk at all!  And suitor isn’t exactly slang; it’s the word in current fashion for any pleasant young gentleman who sends flowers, or otherwise favors any pleasant young lady.  Everybody in society knows what it means, so don’t act old fogy,—­Nancy Dancy.”