Patty Blossom

"Oh," cried Nan, relieved, "I didn't know it was a fancy dress affair."

"It isn't," returned Patty. "They all wear this sort of clothes."

"They do? Are they supposed to be brainy?—Blaney, I mean!"

"Don't be unpleasant, Nancy, it doesn't suit you. And, honestly, I like these people, and I like to be with them. Now, it would be silly of me to wear my usual dance frocks where everybody dresses quite differently. So, don't criticise unkindly, will you?"

"Of course not, you goosie. But it seems a shame when you look so pretty in your own clothes, to wear these hideous duds."

"Thank you for the compliment on the side, but the Cosmic Centre people think I look rather well in these things. I haven't shown them this gown yet, but I know they'll love it."

"It's lucky for you your father isn't at home! He'd make you take it right straight off."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't, Nancy-lady. I'm not a little girl any more, to be scolded and sent to bed. There, I'm ready."

Patty had added a long string of queer-looking beads, terminating in a huge pendant of Oriental effect. It was composed of coloured stones set in dingy metalwork.

"Where did you get that horror? Gift from the Cosmickers?"

"Funny, aren't you? No, I bought it myself, out of my hard-saved income. It's great! I found it at Ossilovi's. He says there isn't another like it out of Asia."

"I should hope not! Though I doubt if it ever saw Asia."

"Nan, you're positively unbearable! One more speech of that sort, and I'll be right down mad at you."

"Forgive me, Patty, I did let my feelings run away with me. It's all right for you to do these things if you want to, but it doesn't seem like you,—and it jars, somehow."

They went downstairs, and soon Sam Blaney came to take Patty away.

Nan greeted him very pleasantly, but inspected him very carefully. He was not in evening dress, their coterie did not approve of anything so conventional. This was against him in Nan's eyes, for she was a stickler for the formalities. But as he threw back his topcoat, and she saw his voluminous soft silk tie of magenta with vermilion dots, his low rolling collar, and his longish mane of hair, she felt an instinctive dislike to the man. Her sense of justice, however, made her reserve judgment until she knew more of him, and she invited him to tarry a few moments.

Blaney sat down, gracefully enough, and chatted casually, but Patty realised that Nan was looking him over and resented it. And, somehow, Blaney didn't appear to advantage in the Fairfield drawing-room, as he did in his own surroundings. His attitude, while polite, was the least bit careless, and his courtesy was indolent rather than alert. In fact, he conducted himself as an old friend might have done, but in a way which was not permissible in a stranger.

Nan led the conversation to the recent work of some comparatively new and very worthwhile poets. She asked Blaney his opinion of a certain poem.

"Oh, that," and the man hesitated, "well, you see,—I—ah,—that is, I'm reserving my opinion as to that man's work,—yes, reserving my opinion."

"And a good idea, too," agreed Nan. "One shouldn't judge, hastily. But you've doubtless made up your mind regarding this poet," and she picked up a book from the table, containing the poems of another modern and much discussed writer.

"Oh, yes," said Blaney, "oh, yes, of course. But, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Fairfield, I'd rather not announce my views. You see, I—er—that is,—I might be quoted wrongly,—misquoted, you know, and it would militate against my influence,—yes,—militate against my standing. One must be so careful."

"Indeed you are right," Nan said, smiling at him; "a poet yourself, you must be careful of what you say about others."

"Yes, just that. How quickly you understand."

Patty and her escort went away, and after a short silence, Blaney said,

"You didn't show Mrs. Fairfield the verses I wrote for you, did you?"

"No," said Patty, "I promised you I wouldn't."

"And I didn't mean to doubt your word, but I thought you might think that your mother—or stepmother, didn't count."

"No, I haven't shown them to any one. But I wish you weren't so sensitive about your beautiful work."

"I wish so, too," and Blaney sighed. "But it's the penalty of–"

"Of genius, why not say it?"

"Yes, why not say it? I'm glad you recognise the beauty of truth spoken in defiance of conventional modesty."

"Oh, yes, I do think if one is talented, it is silly to deny it."

"It is. That is why our people are so frankly sane and honest about their own achievements–"

"And yet, you're so modest,—I mayn't show your verses!"

"That's a different matter. You know those were for your eyes alone."

"I know. I will keep them for myself."

The Studio of the Blaneys in the city was much like the one Patty had seen at Lakewood, only a little more elaborately bizarre. The Moorish lamps were bigger and dustier: the thick brocade draperies a little more faded and tattered; the furniture a little more gilded and wobbly.

Alla came gliding to greet Patty, and gave her an enthusiastic welcome.

"You darling!" she cried, "you very darling! Look at her, everybody! Look! Gloat over this bit of perfect perfection! Did you ever see anything so wonderful?"

Alla had led Patty to the middle of the room, and she now turned her round and round, like a dressmaker exhibiting a model.

Patty felt no embarrassment, for the people all about accepted the exhibition as a matter of course, and gazed at her in smiling approbation. Moreover, all the guests were dressed as unconventionally as Patty, and even more so. There were more queer costumes than she had seen at the Lakewood party, more weird effects of hairdressing and more eccentric posing and posturing. The New York branch of these Bohemians were evidently farther advanced in their cult than the others she had seen.

A little bewildered, Patty allowed herself to be ensconced on a crimson and gold Davenport, and listened to a rattle of conversation that was partly intelligible, and partly, it seemed to her, absolute nonsense.

"I am exploiting this gem," Alla announced, indicating Patty herself as the "gem." "She hasn't quite found herself yet,—but she will soon command the range of the whole emotional spectrum! She is a wonder! Her soul is stuffed to bursting with dynamic force! We must train her, educate her, show her, gently guide her dancing feet in the paths of beauty,—in the star-strewn paths of cosmic beauty."

"We will!" shouted a dozen voices. "What can she do?"

"Dance," replied Alla. "But such dancing! She is a will-o'-the-wisp, a pixie, a thistledown, a butterfly!"

"All those and more," said Sam Blaney. "She is a velvet angel, a rose-coloured leaf in the wind, a fluttering scarf end."

"What imagery!" murmured somebody, and some one else said,

"Inspiration!" in an awed tone.

"And now to work," urged Alla. "We must plan for our holiday party.

Shall we have it here?"