“And pleased?”
“Yes, very much pleased. I didn’t care a lot about Switzerland, but I’m crazy to go to Rome and Venice and some few other Italian show-places. Indeed it will be a pleasure trip for me.”
“Well, it’s lovely. I can’t leave now, of course, but father and I will run down to see you later, wherever you are. I need a little southern sun on my complexion.”
“Nothing could improve your complexion,” said Patty, kissing it, “but it will be great to have you join us. I feel like a whirlpool. It’s awful to have my outlook whipped about so often and so suddenly.”
“And to-morrow you may get a letter saying this is a mistake, and your father is taking you to Kamschatka.”
“Indeed, it isn’t father who’s changeable! It’s that bright telegraph operator, who can’t read a gentleman’s handwriting. Well, there’s no harm done, and now I’ll run away and adjust my mind to my changed fortunes.”
Patty went out to her favourite seat under the awning, and gave herself up to day dreams of the delightful trip in store for her.
She had always longed to go to Italy, but had not expected to do so for many years yet. For some reason Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield had changed their plans, but though the letter told of this, it told little else.
“No hanging back now,” her father had written; “no excuses of week-ends or house-parties. Cancel all your engagements, if you’ve made any, and be ready to leave Markleham Grange when we come for you next week.”