But Helen had flown off to get ready, so Nan turned to her own affairs.
“Good-bye, Patsy Poppet,” Bumble cried, a little later, as in coat and furs she looked in at Patty’s door.
“How sweet you look, angel child. Who sent you the violets——”
“Philip.”
“He did! And none to me?”
“He said you had ordered him not to.”
“So I have; oh, me, I can’t have flowers from admiring swains any more, at all, at all!”
“Don’t pretend you’re sorry, for I know better. You haven’t an idea in your head that isn’t simply and solely about Bill Farnsworth!”
“Dear, dear! As bad as that?” Patty smiled a little absently, as she went on writing a letter.
“Yes, and you’re writing to him now,—I know by the lovesick way you hold your head on one side! And, moreover, my young friend, if you don’t get dressed pretty soon, you’ll be late for your party. It’s ’most four o’clock.”