“I like it, too,” said Grandma Elliott; “don’t make a change yet, Fred; let us try it for a while, at least.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Fairfield, “just as you ladies say. And, Grandma, I think that lady at the next table must know you. She’s smiling at you most amiably.”
Mrs. Elliott looked in the direction indicated.
“Why, she certainly does know me,” she said, bowing cordially to the lady in question. “That is Mrs. Hamilton. She’s the daughter of my old friend, Ellen Howard. And that’s her daughter sitting next her. If they’re living here, Patty, you will probably find Lorraine Hamilton a pleasant companion.”
“Lorraine,” said Patty; “what a pretty name. And she looks like a nice girl, too.”
After dinner our party found Mrs. Hamilton and her daughter in the parlour, and paused to talk to them there.
Mrs. Hamilton was glad to see Mrs. Elliott, who had been such a dear friend of her mother’s, and while they talked to each other the two girls sat down on a near-by sofa to become acquainted.
Lorraine Hamilton was a girl of about Patty’s own age, but while Patty was rosy and healthy-looking, Lorraine was pale and delicate. She was very graceful and pretty, with dark hair and large dark eyes. But she seemed listless and indifferent, and Patty, who enjoyed everything enthusiastically, wondered what could be the matter with her.
“Are you well?” Patty asked her, bluntly. One of Patty’s greatest faults was her abrupt manner of questioning people. She did not mean to be rude, but she was by nature so frank and straightforward that she often spoke in that way without realising it.
“Yes,” said Lorraine, looking a little surprised, “I’m well, but I’m never very strong.”