After supper there was dancing, and Patty was besieged by would-be partners. Good-naturedly she fractioned her dances, and even divided the short intermissions between them. Everybody wanted to dance with the smiling little person in red velvet, and her pretty gaiety salved the wounds of those whom she was obliged to refuse.

At last, Farnsworth came to her, and his determined expression told
Patty he was about to lay down the law.

Sure enough, he took her hand in his, drew it through his arm, and led her out of the dancing room.

"Without even a 'by your leave?'" and Patty looked up at him, inquiringly.

"Without it or with it. But you can't dance any more tonight. You're so tired you can scarcely stand up now."

"That's so, now that you speak of it. But I hadn't realised it."

"Of course you hadn't. You're crazy, when it comes to dancing!"

"Well, you're not. You haven't danced with me once tonight, except that old country dance."

"Did you want me to? Were you lacking for partners?"

"Me! Lacking for partners! Am I, usually?"

"Oh, Patty, what a little Vanity Box you are! No, you never lack for partners or attention or flattery,—all you ever lack is a little common sense."

"Why-ee! Little Billee! I've always prided myself on my common sense.
But where are you taking me?"

"Not very far. There's a comfy window-seat in this little reception room, where you can rest a bit, then I'm going to send you home."

"Oh, you are! And who constituted you my Major Domo, or Commanding
Officer, or Father Superior, or whoever it is that orders people about?"

"I don't order; I persuade, or induce, by power of my irresistible charm." Farnsworth's blue eyes twinkled, and Patty laughed outright, as she said, "Yes, I noticed the irresistibility as I left the Blaneys' tonight!"

"And, that's the very subject I was about to discourse upon,—the
Blaneys, I mean. But first, let me make you comfy."

Farnsworth led Patty to the spacious, cushioned window-seat, and piled soft pillows at her back, and tucked an ottoman beneath her feet, and then sat down beside her. The little room was deserted by the dancers, and though some of the guests strolled in and out, occasionally, there was ample opportunity for real conversation.

"It's this way, Patty," Farnsworth began. "I know Sam Blaney, and you don't. I knew him years ago, and though I've not seen him of late years, he's the same old two and sixpence."

"And a very attractive two and sixpence," declared Patty, an obstinate expression coming into her face. "You see, Little Billee, either you like wise, brainy people, or you don't. I do."

"I know you do, and so do I. But the Blaney crowd are neither wise nor brainy. They are frauds."

"Do you mean conscious frauds? Wilfully deceptive?"

"To a certain degree, yes. They do fool themselves, sometimes, into thinking they are sincere, but they can't even fool themselves all the time,—let alone other people."

"Your observations do not interest me." Patty's air was lofty, she looked away into space, as if bored to death with her companion.

"Would it interest you to know that I know Sam Blaney to be a fraud and a dishonest man?"

"I have heard you say that one's friends should be sacred from disparaging remarks."

"True enough. But, in the first place, Blaney isn't my friend, and even if he were, I should sacrifice him or his friendship for you."

"Why?"

"Never mind why. Oh, Patty, rely on my judgment, rely on my word in this matter, and don't have anything more to do with that rubbish bunch!"

"Look here, Little Billee, if that's all the subject you can find to talk about, I believe I'd rather go back and dance. I'm rested now."

"Sit still, Lady Gay. While we're on this subject, we're going to fight it to a finish."

"You mean you're going to fight me to a finish. Go on, it won't take long."

"You poor little girl,—you are tired, I know. Well, to make a long story short, then, you must break with these Cosmic people, because, if you don't, it will harm your social standing and injure your reputation."

"Why? They're absolutely correct and high-minded. They're a little unconventional, maybe, but they're interesting and worth while."

"But they're frauds, Patty. And they've taken you up, because you're a social favourite, and you add lustre to their list."

"And they don't care for me, personally!"

"Now, don't flare up. Of course they like you, personally,—who doesn't? But they make you think you're brainy and soulful and a little old deep-thinker—and,—you're not, you know."

"Well! You are complimentary! What am I, pray? An ignoramus?"

"Hardly that. You're the sweetest, loveliest girl God ever made, but you're not a blue-stocking. You're not college bred, or even well-read."

"Do you know you're a very horrid person? Do you know I wouldn't stand such talk from many people?"

"I should hope not. Very few people know you well enough or love you well enough to tell you these truths."

"I know somebody who loves me too much to talk to me like that."

"Van Reypen, of course. But, Patty, he doesn't approve of the Blaney crowd, either, and you know it."

"That's because he doesn't understand them, and——"

"Wait a minute. Just what do you mean by understand them? They speak
English, I suppose."

"How dense you are! There is much beside language of words to be understood by kindred——"

"Don't you dare say souls!"

"I will,—I do say souls! That's what has no meaning for you!"

"Go on, Posy Face! You're pretty stunning when you get really stirred up!"

Farnsworth's face broke into a broad smile, and Patty was so amazed at his sudden change of manner that it irritated her.

"Oh, I am, am I! Well, other people have thought so, too. To the extent of putting it into poetry—real poetry!"

"Such as what?"

Farnsworth was so cynical of tone, that Patty broke her pledge of secrecy to the small extent of quoting a few words from the poem Blaney had given her.

"Such as this," she cried:

"——perhaps because her limpid face
Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein
The dimples found no place to anchor and
Abide."

"That is poetry, indeed!" agreed Farnsworth, looking at her quizzically. "Did you say it was written to you?"

"Yes, Sam Blaney wrote it, to me. I didn't mean to tell you, it's a confidential matter,—but you were so horrid about him——"

"Wait a minute, Patty. Is that an original poem, that Blaney wrote for you alone?"

"Yes, it is. I promised not to tell it to anybody, so I'll ask you to say nothing about it."

"Tell me more of it."

"No, I won't. I promised not to."

"You needn't. I'll tell you what comes next:

'——perhaps because her tresses beat
A froth of gold about her throat, and poured
In splendour to the feet that ever seemed
Afloat.'

Isn't that it?"

"Yes! How did you know?" Patty's startled eyes were wide in amazement.

"You dear little goose. I hate to give you a shock, Posy-girl, but those lines were written by a not altogether obscure poet,—one James Whitcomb Riley."

"What! It's no such thing! Mr. Blaney wrote them about me! They begin——"

"Wait! Don't break your promise of confidence. They begin:

"'I loved her.—Why? I never knew.' Don't they?"

"Yes, that's the poem Sam Blaney wrote for me——

"But he chanced to write it after Riley did—not before. Strange they were so similarly inspired, wasn't it?"

"William Farnsworth, do you mean to tell me that that is a poem of
Riley's,—and Sam Blaney palmed it off on me as his own!"

"It looks that way, Patty. At any rate, those are Riley's lines. I've known the thing for years. It's a favourite of mine."

"But I've a book of Riley's,—it isn't in that."

"My child, you mustn't get annoyed with me, when I tell you you're not deeply versed in book-lore,—or deeply booked in verse-lore! For it's true. I admit that is not one of the poet's best known bits,—it's in 'Flying Islands of the Night,'—but it is so exquisite that it ought to be better known. And, by the way, Patty, if you thought Blaney did that gem, I don't wonder you admired him. But, dear little girl, do you see now that the man is capable of deception?"

Patty looked deeply troubled. "You're sure, Billee,—you're positive about this?"

"As sure as I am of my own name."

"Then I want nothing more to do with Sam Blaney or any of his crowd. I'll never forgive it. Why, he wrote the poem while I sat looking at him,—just as fast as he could scribble."

"Doesn't that seem to prove it? He knew Riley's lines, and wrote them down. I doubt if the greatest poet that ever lived scribbled lines like that, offhand."

"Of course they couldn't! You've done it, Little Billee. You've smashed my idols, blown up my air castles, knocked the pedestals from under my heroes——"

"I'm sorry, dear,—but when they are unworthy idols and heroes——"

"And they are! I see it all now. I banked on Mr. Blaney's genius mostly on account of that poem. But, as you say, the very fact that he made me promise not to show it to anybody—but I don't need to prove it. You tell me it's Riley's, and there's no further question about it."

"I'll send you the book, Patty. You'll enjoy it all."

Patty smiled. "I don't want it in corroboration of your assertion, but I'd love to have it. I'd like to know more poetry, Billee. As you so delicately hinted, my education on such matters is a little lacking."

"That's your own fault," said Farnsworth, bluntly. "Poetry isn't a thing to learn at school,—but alone, and at odd times and moments."

"It seems queer," and the earnest little face gazed into his, "for you to know such a lot about poetry. You're so——"

"Go on; don't mind hurting me. So uncouth, awkward, clumsy, lacking in—er—understanding, wasn't it?"

Farnsworth spoke bitterly, and his deep blue eyes were clouded.

"No," Patty returned, gently, "no, I didn't mean all those horrid things, and you know it! I meant, you're so busy with your mines and things, and so wrapped up in your business that it's surprising to know you have time for poetry."

"It's my theory that one can always find time for anything he really wants to do?"

"Can he? Do you suppose, then, you could find time to teach me a little bit about poetry, and how to study it,—or, don't you really want to do this?"

Farnsworth looked at her, and a great and tender light came into his eyes. Then, with a quick smile, he said, lightly, "Yes, indeed; I'll make out a list of books for you tomorrow. May I send them to you?"

Patty was aware of a sudden lack of enthusiasm in Farnsworth's manner, and with equal coolness, she said, "Thank you, that won't be necessary. Just send the list, and I can get them. And, now I think I must begin to commence to think about considering going home."

"Yes, it's late. Who's taking you?"

"I'm going with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. They kindly asked me."

"Very well. Will you go now?"

"Yes, please. And, I—I want to thank you for setting me straight about the Blaneys."

"Don't include Alla. I doubt if she'd do a deceptive thing. But all the same, Patty, she's no friend for you. You don't care for her, do you?"

"No; I did at first, she interested me——"

"I know; 'interested you strangely,' as the novelists say."

"Yes, just that. She is so queer and unusual and——"

"Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, freakish."

"I suppose so. But I liked it all, at first. I don't mind owning up I was getting a little tired of it. It didn't——"

"It didn't make good, did it? But you're through with it now. How will you break it all off, without unpleasantness—for you?"

"Oh, I can manage that by my tactful nature. I mean, with Alla. I shan't bother to be specially tactful with Sam. Need I be?"

"No. When a man has practised a fraud like that on you, he deserves no consideration whatever."

"And tell me, Little Billee, tell me quickly, for I must really be going, how did you walk in there and kidnap me so easily?"

"I had a sort of notion that you ought to be looked after. Channing was here, laughing over some of the details of the Blaney party that he had heard of, and when he told about your dance,—well, Patty, I'll be honest with you. I wanted to see that dance. You know how I love your dancing. Also, I wanted to know just what the dance was,—for I know Grantham."

"The dance was all right, Billee?"

"Yes, perfectly all right, only I'd rather you'd worn sandals. But it was a wonderful dance,—exquisite, poetic, all that is beautiful. I went in, reminded Sam of our old acquaintance, and he welcomed me decently, if not over-cordially. I saw one or two numbers on the program before yours, and I concluded I didn't want you mixed up with that bunch. They're right enough, but their unconventionality and ultra Bohemianism are not the element in which Patty Fairfield belongs. Then came your dance. Unspeakably lovely, all that it ought to be, but not for that herd of idiots! So, I made up my mind I'd persuade you to go home with me,—pretty much instanter! I told Blaney I intended to take you. He was mad all through, and denied my right to ask you to leave his party. But,—well, I reminded him of a few of our past memories—memories fraught with sadness!—to put it poetically,—and he made no further objections to my carrying out my own sweet will——"

"And so you carried out——"

"My own sweet girl! Exactly! Patty, you little rogue, you musn't bewitch me like that! If you do, I'll pick you up again, and carry you off—oh, here comes Mrs. Morrison. Have you come to carry Patty off?"

"Yes," and Mrs. Morrison looked regretful. "I'm sorry, Patty, dear, but really——"

"It's time! Yes, I know it, and I'm quite ready to go. Good night,
Little Billee."

"Good night, Patty. Get a good rest, for you really need it."