Helen went off in peals of laughter at the reminiscence of the so-called chaperon. “No wonder he wore a long skirt! To cover up his feet,—of course! And his white wig! Oh, it was perfect! Where did he get a wig so handy?”
“It was in a little room where a lot of things are, left, I believe, from some theatrical jinks. Anyway, he said he could make up perfectly,—and he did.”
“Oh, he did! I think he was fine!”
“He was fine, Helen, as a masquerader,” said Patty, slowly, “but I don’t think it was a fine performance,—by any means!” She looked gravely at Herron, who reddened a little, but stood his ground.
“Oh, come, now, Miss Fairfield, I didn’t mean any harm. Honest, I never dreamed of offending you, or annoying you,—I thought only of how to manage to keep you there for our little party. Moreover I thought you’d think it a great joke,—honest, I did.”
Herron’s clear brown eyes were so earnest and his expression so troubled, that Patty’s heart was touched.
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Herron,” and she smiled kindly at him, “but it wasn’t just the thing to do,—was it, Phil?”
“Oh, well, forget it, Pattibelle, and if you can’t forget it—forgive it, anyway. Herron meant no harm and I knew at once, that Dame Doremus,—as I told you,—was no lady! But I saw through Herron’s motive as well as his joke, and there’s no great harm done that I can see.”
“I agree with Phil,” and Helen nodded her head positively; “I’m jolly glad you did it, for otherwise, I’d have had to come home without any luncheon!”
“Than which there could be no worse hardship!” Herron sympathised. “Am I forgiven, Miss Fairfield?”