“It is horrid, I know,” she said, contritely. “I don’t know why the excessively correct and well-bred atmosphere of Markleham Grange should bring out my worst American slang, but it does. I beg your pardon, Kitty, and I’ll try to mend my ways.”
“Oh, don’t take it too seriously,” laughed Lady Kitty, “and now, what jounced you?”
“Well, you may remember I had a telegram yesterday, from my adored parent, telling me I was to start for home the first of September.”
“I remember it with startling distinctness.”
“Well, forget it, then, for it isn’t true. One of the clever operators of your clever British telegraph company must have misread or miswritten a word, for I have a letter here from my father, and it seems he wrote Rome instead of home.”
“Oh, Patty Fairfield! And aren’t you really going home at all? And are you going to Rome? To Italy?”
“Yes, just that! Father and Nan have suddenly decided to spend the autumn in Italy, a pleasure trip, you know, and go straight to Rome first, and then go home later, about Christmas, they think.”
“Well, I don’t wonder you were,—what did you call it? Bumped?”
“No, I didn’t say that. I merely announced that I was,—ahem,—surprised a bit.”