"Pooh!" retorted Patty. "I'm not a decrepit old invalid yet, am I, Aunt
Adelaide?"
"No, dearie; but you must take care of yourself. I think a cold compress on your forehead to-night would do you good."
"And a hot compress on my chin, and two lukewarm ones on my ears," teased Patty, laughing at the solicitous tones of the older lady. "No, sir-ee! I'll catch a nap or two, and tomorrow I'll be as right as a—as a—what's that thing that's so awfully right?"
"A trivet," said Mona.
"Yes, a trivet. I've no idea what it is, but I'll be one!"
There was a light supper set out in the dining-room at "Red Chimneys," but no one wanted any, so good-nights were said almost immediately and the wearied revellers sought their rooms.
"No kimono parties to-night, girls," said Patty, firmly. "I'm going straight to bed."
"All right," agreed Mona and Daisy, "we'll save our gossip till morning."
But Patty didn't go straight to bed. She flashed on the lights in her rose-coloured boudoir, drew the curtains of the bay window, and then threw herself into a big easy-chair. She was thinking of Mr. William Farnsworth. She wished he hadn't said what he had. It worried her, somehow. And when he said good-night just now, he had a look in his eyes that meant,—well, perhaps it didn't mean anything after all. Perhaps he was only flirting,—as Patty herself was. But was she? She had just asked herself this question, really seriously, when a rose came flying in at the window and fell at her feet. She looked up quickly,—she was SURE she had drawn the curtains. Yes, she had done so, but there was just a little space between them, where they didn't quite join.
Well, it must have been a good marksman who could throw so accurately!
Westerners were accounted good marksmen,—it MIGHT be—