"Ah, but it means so much! If your gown should be out of key——" Blaney rolled up his eyes and spread his hands, as if the thought were too appalling for words.
Patty giggled. "I hope it won't be," she said. "But, tell me, what is the key? Maybe I can strike it."
"The key," and the poet looked thoughtful, "ah, yes, I have it! The key will be saffron and ultramarine."
Patty gasped. "Oh, I haven't a frock to my name in those colours!"
"But you can harmonise,—yes, harmonise. You will, won't you? If you didn't, I couldn't bear it."
"Oh, then I'll harmonise, yes, I promise you I will. I'll find something that won't make a discord. But can you dictate to all your guests like this?"
"Alas, no! Would that I might! And now I must go. Alla will be wanting me."
"What is he, anyway?" said Patty, as after his adieux, the poet swung away, with his queer, loping gait.
"Bats in his belfry," returned Roger, laughing. "He's the real thing in high-art souls,—if you get what I mean."
"Oh, I don't know," demurred Patty; "I think he's sincere."