Hatless, Patty ran out into the sunshine, and, strolling through the rose garden, soon forgot all else in her delight at the marvellous array of blossoms.
As she turned a corner of a path, she came upon two men talking together. They were Lord Ruthven and Lord Herenden’s head gardener.
“Yes,” his lordship was saying, “you’ve done a good thing, Parker, in getting that hybrid. And this next bush is a fine one, too. Is it a Baroness Rothschild?”
“No,” said Patty, carelessly joining in the conversation, “it’s a Catherine Mermet.”
“So it is, Miss,” said the gardener, turning politely toward her, but Lord Ruthven, after a slight glance, paid no attention to the girl.
“Are you sure, Parker?” he said. “The Mermets are usually pinker.”
“He doesn’t know me! What larks!” thought Patty, gleefully. “I’ll try again.”
“Where is the rose orchard, Parker?” she asked, turning her full face toward the gardener, and leaving only the big white bow to greet the Earl.
Something in her voice startled Lord Ruthven, and he wheeled quickly about. “It is—it can’t be—Miss Fairfield?”
“Good-morning, my lord,” said Patty, with cool politeness. “This, of course,” she thought to herself, “is the civility of the day.”