“Yes, I think so,” said Patty, demurely; “are they all like you in England?”
Patty’s innocent air of inquiry robbed the speech of all effect of pertness, and the genial Mr. Pauncefote roared with delight.
“Ha, ha!” he cried; “all like me in England? No, my child, no! Heaven be praised, there are very few after my pattern.”
“That’s too bad,” said Patty. “I think your pattern is a good one.”
“It is,” said Tom Meredith. “If we had more statesmen after Mr. Pauncefote’s pattern, the House of Commons would be better off.”
This speech called forth applause from the other guests, and the host said, loudly: “Pshaw, pshaw!” but he looked greatly pleased.
When the tea was over and the party rose from the table, Mr. Pauncefote detained Patty for a moment’s chat, while the others broke up into smaller groups or wandered away.
“I want you to meet my daughter,” he was saying; “the young lady in gray over there, talking to Sir Otho.”
“Sir Otho who?” said Patty, quickly, forgetting to respond in regard to Miss Pauncefote.
“Sir Otho Markleham; see the large gentleman with gold-rimmed glasses. She is my youngest daughter, and I know she’d be glad to meet you.”