“You’re a wonderful child,” he said; “you can do almost anything you turn your hand to.”
“Indeed, I can’t,” returned Patty; “I can’t paint like Christine.”
“Oh, well, that’s a special talent of hers. Your special talent is your singing. But I mean you can do all sorts of other things, like guessing puzzles and running motor cars.”
“Yes, so I can; but don’t forget that, if you hadn’t guessed that last charade for me, and an unfair one at that, I never should have had this car. So you see the car is partly yours.”
“Well, I’ll take out my share in going riding with you.”
“Wouldn’t you like to drive it yourself, some day, Mr. Hepworth? You could take Christine out.”
“Christine! I’d rather take you.”
“Rather take me than Christine Farley?” Patty’s blue eyes opened wide, and it was plain to be seen that her surprise at this statement was unfeigned, and by no means a bit of coquetry. But it piqued Gilbert Hepworth, and he answered, a little shortly:
“You know I would! Why do you pretend otherwise?”
“I don’t know any such thing! Christine is your special friend.”