Soberly and slowly Patty was walking towards home on the last day of November. The rain had been falling at intervals through the day, interspersed with spits of snow. Not far from her own gate Patty encountered Clarence Toxteth. The afternoon was already drawing to a close, the gray clouds cutting off the last faint rays of daylight; and, as the young man was somewhat near-sighted, he did not recognize her until they were face to face.

"Ah!" he said. "I am delighted to meet you. I have been to see you."

"Will you turn back now?" she responded.

"I've wanted to see you," said he, turning, "ever since the masquerade; but you were always with that sick tramp."

"I am emulating Florence Nightingale," she returned lightly. "You'll doubtless hear of me some day as a famous sister of charity, or cousin of mercy, or aunt of benevolence, or something of the sort."

"Really? You don't mean it?"

"Who can tell what one does mean?" she queried wilfully. "Will you come and see me take the veil? A nun's life must be dreadfully tame and insipid, but the dress is becoming."

"What do you mean?" her companion asked, puzzled. "You can't be in earnest."

"In earnest? I fancy people are as seldom in earnest as they are in love; but it is easy enough to persuade one's self of being either."

Clarence looked at her with so confused an air, that she burst out into a laugh. Her mood had changed into a mocking, insincere phase; and she experienced a wicked delight in baffling and bewildering her suitor.

"It is a round world," she went on, giving her extravagance more and more the rein, "and round things are apt to be slippery. It is rather trite to call life a masquerade; but it is one, all the same. You fancy you see my face. You are mistaken, it is only a mask: in fact, I dare say you never see your own. Not that it matters in the least, for you're better off for having flattering glasses. I shall hate to wash the convent-floors, for they'll be stone, and awfully cold; but I suppose I shall have to."

"Yes," Clarence stammered. He had not the faintest notion what she was talking about; but the word "masquerade" seemed to furnish a clew. "Why didn't you come to the masquerade?" he asked. "You and Flossy and Burleigh were all missing when we unmasked. You lost your gloves."

"I was there, and you did not know me: so I won."

"But what became of you?"

"I went out to get a breath of air, and that Peter Mixon got thrown out of his carriage at my very feet. Of course I didn't feel like going back after that."

"There are some things very mysterious about that night," Toxteth said. "I'm sure I don't know half that went on in my own house."

"Who ever did?" she retorted. "I'm sure you are better off. Will you come in?"

They had reached the piazza by this time, and Patty laid her hand upon the door-handle.

"I think not," he answered. "They will wait tea for me at home. But I want to ask you something."

"It is dangerous to ask things in this world," she said, "there is always so much uncertainty what the answer will be."

"But I am in uncertainty now."

"That can't be pleasant," replied she; "but the frying-pan is better than the fire. It cannot be any thing that concerns yourself, however, or you couldn't hesitate about it."

"It does concern me, and I want it answered."

"Really?" she said, angry that she could not evade him. "When the sultan throws the handkerchief, I supposed he never had a doubt of its reception."

"Throws the handkerchief? I don't understand."

"It is a Turkish custom, which has been copied the world over by those favored individuals whom fate or fortune has made irresistible; only the handkerchief must be gold-edged."

"If you are going to talk nonsense," the young man said, offended, "I may as well go."

"Nonsense!" Patty retorted, giving her umbrella a flirt. "Do you call it nonsense? It is the most serious thing I know. However, it is no matter. I am hindering you. Good-night."

"Wait," he said. "You promised me an answer long ago, and you've never given it to me."

"An answer? An answer to what?"

"You know what," he said doggedly. "To the question I asked you the day we went to Samoset."

"I haven't had time to think," she answered weakly. "First there was the exhibition, and then the masquerade, and then Peter Mixon's sickness."

"If you require so much time to think," returned he bitterly, "that is answer enough."

"Very well. We'll consider the matter settled."

"No, no!" he exclaimed. "Take your own time. I'll wait. But you ought to answer me."

"That is true," assented Patty gloomily. "Give me a week, only a week, and I will."

"In a week then," he said, "I shall come for my answer. Don't make it 'no,' Patty."