He was right, for Patty did look adorably young and sweet. She had on a Frenchy tea-gown of pale green silk, bubbling over with tulle frills of the same shade, touched here and there with tiny rosebuds. A fetching cap of matching materials, was, Nan declared, a mere piece of affectation, but it accented her invalidism, and was vastly becoming. Her face, still pale from her illness, was of a waxen hue, but a warm pink had begun to glow in her cheeks and her blue eyes were as twinkling and roguish as ever.
“And what’s more,” Patty went on, “I won’t be twenty-one till next May,—and that’s ages away yet.”
“Yes, about half a year!” retorted Kit, “so I’m not so very far out, my little old lady! Did you get all the tokens I sent you?”
“Guess I did. I’m acknowledging ’em up as fast as I can. I had such oodles of stuff. I begrudge the flowers that came while I was too lost to the world to see them, but enough have come since to make up. You’ll get your receipts in due time.”
“Thanks. I was afraid mine were lost in the shuffle. I say, Patty, when can you go out for a spin?”
“Not this week. Next, maybe.”
“Go with me first?”
“No, me,” put in Chick. “I’ve a limousine, he has only a runabout.”
“Lots more fun in a runabout. Besides, I asked you first.”
“What fun!” cried Patty, clapping her hands. “It’s like a dance. I’m going to have a programme. Wait, here’s one.”