“No; and never mind about him, anyway. How are you all? Is father well? Oh, Nan, it seems as if I’d been away from home a year! And what do you think? I have to dance for her to amuse her!”
“Patty! Not really? Well, you can do that all right.”
“Sure I can! Oh, she’s a peach! Don’t reprove my slang, Nan; I have to be so precise when I’m on duty. Well, I must say good-by now. I’ll write you a long letter as soon as I get a chance. To-night we’re going to see Mlle. Thingamajig dance, and to-morrow night, to the opera. So you see I’m not dull.”
“Oh, Patty, I wish you’d drop it all and come home! I don’t like it, and Fred doesn’t either.”
“Tra-la-la! ’Twill all be over soon! Only six days more. Expect me home next Thursday afternoon. Love to all. Good-by. Patty!”
Patty hung up the receiver, for she knew if she talked any longer she’d get homesick. The sound of Nan’s familiar voice made her long for her home and her people. But Patty was plucky, and, also, she was doggedly determined to succeed this time.
So she went back to Mrs. Van Reypen with a placid countenance, and sat for an hour or more complimenting and admiring the costumes in process of construction.
Somehow the afternoon dragged itself away, and the evening, at the theatre, passed pleasantly enough.
But the succeeding days went slowly.
Mrs. Van Reypen was difficult to please. She was fretty, irritable, inconsequent, and unjust.
What suited her one day displeased her highly the next.
So long as Patty praised, complimented, and flattered her all went fairly well.
But if Patty inadvertently disagreed with her, or expressed a contrary opinion, there was a scene.
And again, if Patty seemed especially meek and mild Mrs. Van Reypen would say:
“Don’t sit there and assent to everything I say! Do have some mind of your own! Express an honest opinion, even though it may differ from mine.”
Then, if Patty did this, it would bring down vials of wrath on her inoffensive head. Often she was at her wits’ end to know what to say. But her sense of humour never deserted her, and if she said something, feeling sure she was going to get sorely berated for saying it, she was able to smile inwardly when the scathing retort was uttered.
Sunday was an especially hard day. It was stormy, so they could not go out.
So Mrs. Van Reypen bade Patty read sermons to her.
When Patty did so she either fell asleep and then, waking suddenly, declared that Patty had been skipping, or else she argued contrary to the doctrines expressed in the sermons and expected Patty to combat her arguments.
“I’m tired of hearing you read,” she said, at last. “You do read abominably. First you go along in staccato jerks, then you drone in a monotone. Philip is a fine reader. I love to hear Philip read. I wish he’d come in to-day. I wonder why he doesn’t? Probably because you’re here. He must have taken a violent dislike to you, Miss Fairfield.”
“Do you think so?” said Patty, almost choking with suppressed laughter at this version of Philip’s attitude toward her.
“Yes, I’m sure he did. For usually he likes my companions—especially if they’re pretty. And you’re pretty, Miss Fairfield. Not the type I admire myself,—I prefer brunettes,—but still you are pretty in your own way.”
“Thank you,” said Patty, meekly.
“And you’re especially pretty when you dance. I wish you could dance for me now; but, of course, I wouldn’t let you dance on Sunday. That’s the worst of Sundays. There’s so little one can do.”
“Shall I sing hymns to you?” inquired Patty, gently, for she really felt sorry for the discontented old lady.
“Yes, if you like,” was the not very gracious rejoinder, and, without accompaniment, Patty sang the old, well-known hymns in her true, sweet voice.
The twilight was falling, and, as Patty’s soothing music continued, Mrs. Van Reypen fell asleep in her chair.
Exhausted by a really difficult day Patty also dropped into a doze, and the two slept peacefully in their chairs in front of the dying embers of the wood fire.
It was thus that Philip Van Reypen found them as he came softly in at five o’clock.
“Well, I’ll be excused,” he said, to himself, “if I ever saw anything to beat that!”
His gaze had wandered from his sleeping aunt to Patty, now sound asleep in a big armchair.
The crimson velvet made a perfect background for her golden curls, a bit tumbled by her afternoon exertions at being entertaining.
Her posture was one of graceful relaxation, and pretty Patty had never looked prettier than she did then, asleep in the faint firelight.
“By Jove!” exclaimed the young man, but not aloud, “if that isn’t the prettiest sight ever. I believe there’s a tradition that one may kiss a lady whom one finds asleep in her chair, but I won’t. She’s a dear little girl, and she shan’t be teased.”
Then Mr. Philip Van Reypen deliberately, and noiselessly, lifted another large armchair and, carefully disposing his own goodly proportioned frame within it, proceeded to fall asleep himself—or if not really asleep, he gave an exceedingly good imitation of it.
Patty woke first. As she slowly opened her eyes she saw Philip dimly through the now rapidly gathering dusk.
Quick as a flash she took in the situation, and shut her eyes again, though not until Philip had seen her from beneath his own quivering lids.
After a time she peeped again.
“Why play hide-and-seek?” he whispered.
“What about your promise?” she returned, also under her breath.
“Had to come. Aunty telephoned for me.”
“Oh!”
Then Mrs. Van Reypen awoke.
“Who’s here?” she cried out. “Oh, Philip, you!”
She heartily kissed her nephew, and then rang for lights and tea.
“Miss Fairfield,” she said, not untimidly, but with decision, “you are weary and I’m not surprised at it. Go to your room and rest until dinner time! I will send your tea to you there.”
“Yes, Mrs. Van Reypen,” said Patty, demurely, and, with a slight impersonal bow to Philip, she left the room.
“Oh, I say! Aunty Van!” exclaimed the young man, as Patty disappeared, “don’t send her away.”
“Be quiet, Philip,” said his aunt. “You know you don’t like her, and she needs a rest.”
“Don’t like her!” echoed Philip. “Does a cat like cream? Aunty Van, what’s the matter with you, anyway? Who is she?”
“She’s my companion,” was the stern response, “my hired companion, and I do not wish you to treat her as an equal.”
“Equal! She’s superior to anything I’ve ever seen yet.”
“Oh, you rogue! You say that, or its equivalent, about every girl you meet.”
“Pooh! Nonsense! But I say, aunty, she’ll come down to dinner, won’t she?”
“Yes—I suppose so. But mind now, Philip, you’re not to talk to her as if she were of your own class.”
“No’m; I won’t.”
Reassured by the knowledge