"Yes, I'll take that part, if you want me to," she said, and Mr. Cromer said he would design her costume that afternoon.
"Hello, Apple Blossom!" called a big, round voice, and Bill Farnsworth came strolling along the terrace. Perched on his shoulder was Baby May, her tiny hands grasping his thick, wavy hair, and her tiny feet kicking, as she squealed in glee.
"Misser Bill my horsie," she announced. "Me go ridy-by."
"IS there something on my shoulder?" asked Bill, seemingly unconscious of his burden. "I thought a piece of thistledown lighted there, but it may have blown off."
"There is a bit of thistledown there," said Patty, "but don't brush it off. It's rather becoming to you."
"Indeed it is," agreed Cromer. "I'd like to sketch you and that mite of humanity together."
"You're ready to sketch anybody that comes along, seems to me," observed Bill. "Isn't this Miss Fairfield's turn?"
"I expect she's about tired of holding her pose," said the artist. "I'll give her a rest, and make a lightning sketch of you two. Baby's mother may like to have it."
"Oh, give it to me!" begged Patty. "I'd love to have a picture of Baby
May."
"But there'll be so much more of me in it than Baby May," said Bill, gravely.