"Yes; I do love frilly clothes. Now, I suppose your ideal girl wears plain tailor-made suits, and stiff white collars, and small hats without much trimming,—just a band and a quill."
"Say, that's where you're 'way off! I like to see girls all dollied up in squffly lace over-skirts,—or whatever you call 'em,—with dinky little bows here and there."
"Is this frock all right, then?" asked Patty, demurely, knowing that her summer afternoon costume was of the very type he had tried to describe.
"Just the ticket! I'm not much on millinery, but you look like an apple blossom trimmed with sunshine."
"Why, you're a poet! Only poets talk like that. I doubt if Mr. Cromer could say anything prettier."
"'Tisn't pretty enough for you. Only a chap like Austin Dobson could make poetry about you."
The earnest sincerity in the big blue eyes of the Westerner robbed the words of any semblance of impertinence, and Patty spoke out her surprise.
"Why, do you read Austin Dobson? I never thought—"
She paused, lest she hurt his feelings by her implication, but
Farnsworth went on, quietly:
"You never thought a big, hulking fellow like me could appreciate anything exquisite and dainty, either in poetry or in people," he said. "I don't blame you, Miss Fairfield; I am uncouth, uncultured, and unmannered. But I am fond of books, and, perhaps by the law of contrast, I am especially fond of the Minor Poets."