After the sound of stamping and whisking off snow in the hall, a young man came into the pleasant sun-parlour where the girls were.
It was with difficulty that Patty concealed her amazement as she looked at him. He was of a type that she had heard of, but had never before chanced to meet.
Mechanically, she went through the formalities of the introduction, and sat staring at him, without realising that she was doing so.
"Well," said Sam Blaney, at last, "what about it? Do I get a blue ribbon?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" and Patty blushed at her rudeness. "You see, you er—you reminded me of somebody I have met——"
"No, you mean I remind you of somebody you never have met, but are glad to discover at last."
Patty laughed outright, for the words so definitely expressed her state of mind. Thus encouraged, she continued to look at him.
Blaney was not so extraordinary of appearance, but he presented the effects of the class known as artistic. His thick, fair hair, while it could scarcely be called long, was a trifle longer than the conventional cut. His collar, while not Byronic, was low, and he wore a Windsor tie, of a sickly, pale green. He was a big man, but loose-jointed and ungainly of build. His manners were careless, and his voice was low and soft. He had big grey eyes, which seemed especially noticeable by reason of enormous tortoise-rimmed glasses, whose long, thick bows hooked over his ears.
"You are a poet," Patty said, decisively, after a smiling survey; "and you are right, I have always wanted to know a live poet."
"I hope," said Blaney, in a mournful way, "that you don't agree with those wiseacres who think the only good poet is a dead poet."