Patty looked around her,—at the gold and violet sunset sky above them, the sparkling fountain plashing below them, the soft twilight atmosphere about them, and the Roman monuments both near and far,—and answered:
“If I ever could be sentimental, it would be here and now.”
“Nonsense!” cried Peter. “I don’t want you to be sentimental! Save that for Venice. Child, don’t you know the difference between sentiment and sentimentality?”
“No,” said Patty, in surprise, “is there any?”
“You’re hopeless! Doesn’t this exquisite moment, here and now, inspire you with impulses of noble sentiment quite removed from mawkish sentimentality?”
“I don’t know,” said honest Patty. “What sentiment ought I to feel?”
“Oh, I don’t want to suggest. Look in your own heart, and tell me if there’s no pleasant thought there, for this especial moment,—and for me?”
Patty shut her eyes tight, and pondered.
“Yes,” she said, triumphantly, “I know what you mean. I looked in my heart, and it’s overflowing with a sentiment of gratitude for your kindness to me.”
For once Patty saw Peter Homer look positively angry.