them there.
“Oh; don’t you go, Ken,” said Patty.
“Yes, I’d rather. When Hepworth comes you get so grown-up all of a sudden. With your ‘Oh, how do you do?’ and your tea.”
Kenneth mimicked Patty’s voice, which did sound different when she spoke to Mr. Hepworth.
“Ken, you’re very unjust,” said Patty, her cheeks flushing; “of course I have to give Mr. Hepworth tea when he asks for it; and if I seem more ‘grown-up’ with him, it’s because he’s so much older than you are.”
“He is, indeed! About twelve years older! Too old to be your friend. He ought to be calling on Mrs. Fairfield.”
“He is. He calls on us both. I think you’re very silly!”
This conversation had been in undertones, while Elise was donning her hat and furs, and great was her curiosity when Patty turned from Kenneth, with an offended or hurt expression on her face.
“What’s the matter with you two?” she asked, bluntly.
“Nothing,” said Ken, looking humble. “Patty’s been begging me to be more polite to the goldfish.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Patty; “your manners are above reproach, Ken.”
“Thanks, fair lady,” he replied, with a Chesterfieldian bow, and then the three went away.
“Did I drive off your young friends, Patty?” said Mr. Hepworth, as she returned to the library, where Jane was already setting forth the tea things.
Patty was nonplussed. He certainly had driven them away, but she couldn’t exactly tell him so.
“You needn’t answer,” he said, laughing at her dismayed expression. “I am sorry they don’t like me, but until you show that you don’t, I shall continue to come here.”
“I hope you will,” said Patty, earnestly. “It isn’t that they don’t like you, Mr. Hepworth; it’s that they think you don’t like them.”
“What?”
“Oh, I don’t mean exactly that; but they think that you think they’re children,—almost, and you’re bored by them.”
“I’m not bored by you, and you’re a child,—almost.”
“Well, I don’t know how it is,” said Patty, throwing off all responsibility in the matter; “but I like them and I like you, and yet, I’d rather have you at different times.”
“Which do you like better?” asked Mr. Hepworth. He knew it was a foolish question, but it was uttered almost involuntarily.
“Them!” said Patty, but she gave him such a roguish smile as she said it, that he almost thought she meant the opposite.
“Still,” she went on, with what was palpably a mock regret, “I shall have to put up with you for the present; so be as young as you can. How many lumps, please?”
“Two; you see I can be very young.”
“Yes,” said Patty, approvingly; “it is young to take two lumps. But now tell me something about Miss Farley. Have you heard from her or of her lately?”
“Yes, I have,” said Mr. Hepworth, as he stirred his tea. “That is, I’ve heard of her. My friend, down in Virginia, who knows Miss Farley, has sent me another of her sketches, and it proves more positively than ever that the girl has real genius. But, Patty, I want you to give up this scheme of yours to help her. It was good of your father to make the offer he did, but I don’t want you racing around to these dreadful places looking for work. I’m going to get some other people interested in Miss Farley, and I’m sure her art education can be managed in some way. I’d willingly subscribe the whole sum needed, myself, but it would be impossible to arrange it that way. She’d never accept it, if she knew; and it’s difficult to deceive her.”
Patty looked serious.
“I don’t wonder you think I can’t do what I set out to do,” she said slowly, “for I’ve made so many ridiculous failures already. But please don’t lose faith in me, yet. Give me one or two more chances.”
Mr. Hepworth looked kindly into Patty’s earnest eyes.
“Don’t take this thing too seriously,” he said.
“But I want to take it seriously. You think I’m a child,—a butterfly. I assure you I am neither.”
“I think you’re adorable, whatever you are!” was on the tip of Gilbert Hepworth’s tongue; but he did not say it.
Though he cared more for Patty than for anything on earth, he had vowed to himself the girl should never know it. He was thirty-five, and Patty but eighteen, and he knew that was too great a discrepancy in years for him ever to hope to win her affections.
So he contented himself with an occasional evening call, or once in a while dropping in at tea time, resolved never to show to Patty herself the high regard he had for her.
She had told him of her various unsuccessful attempts at “earning her living,” and he deeply regretted that he had been the means of bringing about the situation.
He did not share Mr. Fairfield’s opinion that the experience was a good one for Patty, and would broaden her views of humanity in general, and teach her a few worth-while lessons.
“Please give up the notion,” he urged, after they had talked the matter over.
“Indeed I won’t,” returned Patty. “At least, not until I’ve proved to my own satisfaction that my theories are wrong. And I don’t think yet that they are. I still believe I can earn fifteen dollars a week, without having had special training for any work. Surely I ought to have time to prove myself right.”
“Yes, you ought to have time,” said Mr. Hepworth, gently, “but you ought not to do it at all. It’s an absurd proposition, the whole thing. And as I, unfortunately, brought it about, I want to ask you, please, to drop it.”
“No, sir!” said Patty, gravely, but wagging a roguish forefinger at him; “people can’t undo their mistakes so easily. If, as you say, you brought about this painful situation, then you must sit patiently by and watch me as I flounder about in the various sloughs of despond.”
“Oh, Patty, don’t! Please drop it all,—for my sake!”
Patty looked up in surprise at his earnest tones, but she only laughed gaily, and said:
“Nixy! Not I! Not by no means! But I’ll give in to this extent. I’ll agree not to make more than three more attempts. If I can’t succeed in three more efforts, I’ll give up the game, and confess myself a butterfly and an idiot.”
“The only symptoms of idiocy are shown in your making three more attempts,” said Mr. Hepworth, who was almost angry at Patty’s persistence.
“Oh, pooh! I probably shan’t make three more! I just somehow feel sure I’ll succeed the very next time.”
“A sanguine idiot is the most hopeless sort,” said Mr. Hepworth, with a resigned air. “May I ask what you intend to attempt next?”
“You may ask, but you can’t be answered, for I don’t yet know, myself. I’ve two or three tempting plans, but I don’t know which to choose. I’ve thought of taking a place as cook.”
“Patty! don’t you dare do such a thing! To think of you in a kitchen,—under orders! Oh, child, how can you?”
Patty laughed outright at Mr. Hepworth’s dismay.
“Cheer up!” she cried; “I didn’t mean it! But you think skilled labour is necessary, and truly, I’m skilled in cooking. I really am.”
“Yes,