Patty Blossom

"Here, of course," she was answered.

"But others of you have larger homes, more pretentious dwellings–"

"But not the atmosphere. This Studio,—" it was a large-eyed young musician talking, "this hallowed room has more elevating tendency,—more inspiring atmosphere than any other. Let us meet here by all means, and let us have such a program—such a feast of glories as never before."

Then another man spoke. He was a tall young chap, with a good-natured smile, and Patty liked his face.

"I am an artist," he announced, "and a rattling good artist. I haven't yet achieved my ultimate recognition, but it will come,—it must come. I, therefore, I will undertake the task,—the ineffably joyous task of designing,—of inventing a dance for Miss Fairfield."

"Do, Grantham," cried Blaney. "No one could do it better. Dream out a scheme, a picture plan that will be worthy of our little Terpsichore. A dance that shall be a whirlwind of violets,—a tornado of lilting veils."

"Veils!" cried Grantham, "that's the keynote! A Dance of the Year,—a mad gyration of Time,—of Time, himself, translated into thistledown,—into scented thistledown."

"Bravo!" "Glorious!"

Other praises were shouted, and the place was like a pandemonium. Patty began to realise the Bohemians were a boisterous lot. She clapped her hands over her ears in smiling dismay.

"Quiet!" said Blaney, in his low, exquisite tones, and in an instant the room was almost silent.

Committees were appointed to take charge of the Christmas celebration, and then the program began.

It was long, and, to Patty, a bit uninteresting. She tried hard to understand the queer things they read or recited, but it seemed to her a continuous repetition of sound without sense. She was willing to admit her own stupidity, and noting the rapt expressions on the faces round her, she concluded the lack was in herself. The music, too, though strange and eccentric, didn't seem to her as worth while as it had done before, though it was decidedly similar. Blaney read some of his poems, to a zithern accompaniment, but they weren't very impressive, and not nearly so poetic as the lines he had written for her. She wondered if she had really inspired him to greater heights of song than he could attain without her influence.

He had assured her of this, and she began to think it might be so.

The supper followed the program. This was not enjoyed by Patty. Usually, after a dance or concert, she was hungry for some light refreshment, but in this incense-laden, smoke-heavy atmosphere, she felt no desire to eat, and had she done so, she could not have relished the viands. For they were of highly-spiced and foreign-flavoured sorts, and their principal ingredients were smoked fish, pungent sauces, and strong cheese, all of which Patty detested. Moreover, the service was far from dainty. The heavy china, thick glass, and battered, unreal silver detracted still further from the appetising effects of the feast.

But everybody was so genuinely distressed at Patty's lack of appetite and made such to-do about it, that she forced herself to eat, and even essayed a cup of their muddy, syrupy coffee.

And she enjoyed herself. She absorbed much of their jargon and stored it up in her brain for future use. She unconsciously adapted herself to their mannerisms and whimsical enthusiasm, and when she went home everybody praised her and declared her one of them and the best of them.

"By far the best," said Blaney, as he tucked her into the Fairfield limousine which, with an accompanying maid, had been sent for her. "And may I call soon, and reiterate this,—in better and longer lines?"

"Yes, do," said Patty. "I'd love to have you."

Nan was waiting up for her.

"Well, I've seen your new friend?" she said, as Patty flung off her wrap and stood for a moment by the library table.

"Yep," said Patty, smiling, "and sumpum tells me, Nan, that you're going to be disagreeable or disapproving or disappointed or dis—something or other about him. And I beg of you to don't,—at least until I get a bite of supper. I couldn't eat their old delicatessen shop stuff, and I want a decent sandwich and a glass of milk,—so I do."

"Why, you poor child! I'll get it for you. Cook has gone to bed, but I'll forage in the pantry."

"Do, that's a fairy stepmother. Bring some fruit, too, please."

Patty went up to her room, and when Nan appeared, shortly, with a most attractive supper tray, she was in kimono and cap, waiting for it.

"My, but this is good! I tell you, Nan, those Cosmickers know how to think, but they don't know a thing about foods."

"Your Blaney looks well nourished. But, he didn't strike me as very erudite. Why, Patty, he didn't know who those poets were, I asked him about!"

"Oh, yes, he did. He didn't want to discuss 'em, that's all."

"Nonsense! I saw his expression. He didn't know them, I tell you. He has never read a word of them."

"Well, he doesn't have to. He can write his own poems."

"Does he? Is he a poet, really?"

"Yes, Nan, he is. And he's all right, and Alla is, too. I don't like all their associate souls, but I like a lot of them, and you would too, if you saw them in their proper setting. Anyhow, their old symposium has tired my little brain all up, and with many thanks for your kind charity,—what there was of it—I'll let you go, if you really feel you must."

Nan laughed, for there was deep good feeling between these two, then she kissed Patty good night and went off with the empty tray.

CHAPTER XII

AN ODD DINNER PARTY

A few nights later, Patty invited the two Blaneys to dinner. Nan wanted to meet Alla, and Mr. Fairfield, too, expressed a desire to see these new friends of Patty's.

"Me and the two companies is three," said Patty, making up her party, "and you and Dad are five. Who'd make a good sixth?"

"Only six?" asked Nan. "Why not a big dinner?"

"No; I don't think so. You see, the Blaneys don't fit in with everybody, and I want them to have a good time."

"Oh, I mean ask their own sort of people."

Patty looked up, quickly. "Now, Nan, don't be unpleasant. You're implying that their kind of people are not as nice as our kind, and that hurts my feelinks, and you know it. I want you wid me on this,—not agin me."

"I am, Patty. I don't mean to be horrid. Well, have six, if you like.

Who else?"

"Chick Channing, I think. He's so adaptable and all-round nice with everybody. Phil hates the Blaneys, and–"

"Mr. Farnsworth?"

"I don't think he'd like them, either. And,—too,—Bill isn't very chummy with me lately."

"Why not?"

"Dunno."

"Did you quarrel?"

"Now, Nan, don't ask such leading questions. We didn't exactly quarrel, and yet again, I suppose we did quarrel,—at least, I did,—he didn't. I sort of snubbed him, and he took it more seriously than I meant, if you call that a quarrel. But anyway, he wouldn't stand for the Blaney crowd, I'm sure of that."

"All right, ask Chick. As you say, he'll chum with anybody. He's a splendid dinner guest."