And with a kiss on his frowning forehead, Patty ran to the piano, and began to play "Silver Threads Among the Gold," to a rag-time improvisation of her own.
"Oh, Pattibelle," cried Chick, "what would your vast-horizoned friends say if they could hear you playing ragtime! I'm sure a lemon-coloured nocturne or a flaming fugue would be nearer their idea of melody."
"Play us a fox-trot, Nan," said Patty, jumping up, and in another minute, as Nan obligingly acquiesced, Patty and Chick were dancing gaily up and down the room.
"Forgive me, Patty," said Chick, as they danced out into the hall, "I wouldn't offend you or your friends for worlds, but they—well, they struck me funny, you see."
"They're not funny, Chick. They're the real thing. You can't see it,
I know, and neither can Dad or Nan, but I do."
"All right, Patty. Go into it if you like. I don't believe it will hurt you. And like the measles, the harder you have it, the sooner you'll get over it, and you'll never have it but once. By the way, they invited me to their Christmas racket,—and I'm going!"
CHAPTER XIII
ELISE AND PATTY
"I think you're just as mean as you can be, Patty Fairfield! You won't come to my tree and you won't have the House Sale, and you won't do a thing anybody wants you to! I never saw such a disagreeable old thing as you are!"
"Why, Elise, you dear little, sweet, 'bused child! Am I as bad as all that? You do su'prise me! Well, well, I must mend my ways. I've always had a reputation for good nature, but it seems to be slipping awa' Jean, like snow in the thaw, Jean,—as the song book says. Now, my friend and pardner, here's my ultimatum. But smile on me, first, or I can't talk to you at all. You look like a thunder cloud,—a very pretty thunder cloud, to be sure,—but still, lowering and threatening. Brace up, idol of my heart,—shine out, little face, sunning over with raven black curls,—I seem to be poetically inclined, don't I?"