However, nothing transpired to rouse her suspicions in any way. Patty was her own gay, sunny self, planning all sorts of gaieties and employments for the winter season. She had by no means given up or neglected her club, that was for the purpose of giving pleasure to shop-girls or other working women, and she thought up plans for raising money for that philanthropic purpose.
She kept up her membership in the Current Events Club and in the Musical Society to which she belonged, and she showed no undue interest in the new light operas that were successively put upon the stage. She attended most of these, but she had always had a liking for them and that did not seem to Nan a special indication of histrionic intent.
But one evening, as the three Fairfields sat at dinner, Patty was called to the telephone. She left the table and after a time returned with sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks.
“Dear people,” she said, smiling at her parents, “I’ve a surprise to spring on you. Will you be astounded to learn that your foolish little Patty had a chance to make good in the world? To have a career that will mean fame and celebrity.”
Nan almost choked. An icy hand seemed to clutch at her throat. The hour had struck, then. And with all her watchfulness she had not succeeded in preventing it!
“It perfectly wonderful,” Patty was rattling on, “you can hardly believe it,—I hardly can, myself, but I’m going to be a great singer.”
“You’re that now, Kiddie,” said her father, who had no idea of what lay back of this introduction.
“Yes, but more than that! Oh, Nan, it’s too glorious! Daddy, what do you think? I’m going to sing in light opera!”
“You’ve often done that,” he returned, thinking of her amateur performances. “One of your favourite Gilbert and Sullivan ones, or more modern this time?”
Patty laughed happily. “You don’t get it yet, Dadsy. I mean in a real opera, on the real stage.”