They were in Patty's boudoir, the morning after the Christmas party. A breakfast tray, with contents only partly demolished, was pushed away, as the importance of the discussion made food seem an intrusive factor.
Patty's cap was askew on her hastily knotted-up curls, and she gathered about her the voluminous folds of a billowy, blue silk affair, that was her latest acquisition in the way of négligées.
"My child," said Nan, "you have given yourself away. If you want any help in making up your mind, you are not in love with that young man. You don't 'care for' him, in the technical sense of the term."
"But he's very nice, Nancy. He's a big-hearted, fine-minded——"
"Upstanding, clean-cut American gentleman. Let me help you out. Yes, Patty, he's all those things and more. But if you don't love him you mustn't marry him. You're old enough to know your own mind."
"I'm not such an ancient!"
"Don't be silly! You're nearly twenty-one——"
"Just twenty and a half."
"Well, all right, twenty and a half. But that's not like seventeen.
You're young for your years, I think. But anyway, you've seen enough
of men to know if Phil Van Reypen is 'Lord of your life,—your
King,—your Star!' Is he?"
"Not much he isn't! Why, Nan, he's an awfully nice chap, but no
'Philip, My King!' There, you see I can quote poetry as well as you.
Oh, Nan, Bill Farnsworth knows an awful lot about poetry! Would you
think he would?"