“Which way?” asked Patty, as she grasped the steering bar.
“Straight along the coast,” answered Nan; “the ocean is so beautiful to-day, I don’t want to get out of sight of it.”
“All right, here we go;” and Patty headed the car south along the line, continuous shore drive.
“Nan,” she observed, as they flew along, “do you happen to know of any remarkable, important, and very-much-to-be-celebrated day that is going to occur soon?”
“Day?” repeated Nan, looking blank,—so exceedingly blank that it seemed an assumed expression.
“Yes, day! A day,—one day,—an especial day! Do try to think. It may occur next week!”
“Let me see,” said Nan, in a deeply thoughtful tone, “this is May,—so you can’t mean Washington’s Birthday or Lincoln’s Birthday.”
“No! nor Christmas Day, nor St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning! But, all the same, it’s one of the most important dates in the annals of Time, and I’ll give you one more chance to save your reputation by guessing what it is, before I tell you.”
“Well, of course I have no idea when it occurs, but, if I’m merely guessing, I’ll guess that you refer to Mona Galbraith’s birthday.”
“Oh, Nan! you are too exasperating! Another speech like that and I’ll put you out of this car and let you walk home! Now the occasion to which I refer, and which you know well enough, only you think it’s roguish to pretend you don’t, is the birthday of one Miss Patricia Fairfield! a clever and charming young girl, who will on that day achieve the dignity of being nineteen years old!”