Patty’s own rooms were delightful. A bedroom and dressing-room, opening on a half-enclosed balcony, gave her the opportunity for sleeping out of doors that she so much desired. Her father insisted that she should have what he called a “civilised bedchamber,” and then, if she chose to play gipsy occasionally, she might do so.
So she and Christine planned all her furniture and decorations, and made notes and lists, and, before they knew it, it was time to return to New York.
“You know a lot about house decoration, Christine; don’t you?” said Patty, as they sat in the homeward-bound train.
“No, not a lot. But it comes natural to me to know what things harmonise in a household. Of course, I’ve never studied it,—it’s a science; now, you know. But, if I didn’t want to take up illustrating seriously, I would try decorating.”
“Oh, illustrating is lots nicer,—and it pays better, too.”
“I don’t know about that. But Mr. Hepworth says I will make a name for myself as an illustrator, and so I know I shall.”
Patty laughed. “You have as much faith in that man as I have,” she said.
“Yes; I’ve implicit faith in his judgment, and in his technical knowledge.”
“Well, I’ve faith in him in every way. I think he’s a fine character.”
“You ought to think so, Patty. Why, he worships the ground you walk on.”