“Awfully mean of you—before I had my innings. However, I don’t care; let’s. It’s a fine, well-aired morning, isn’t it?”
“Are you always so funny?” asked Patty, staring at the young man, like a child pleased with a new toy.
“’Most always,” was the cheerful retort; “aren’t you?”
“Now you’re rude again, and I must ask you to go away. But tell me your name before you go, so that I may avoid you in future.”
“What a good plan! My name, on the Grampian Hills, is Floyd Austin, and, truly, I’m well worth knowing. This performance this morning is just an escapade. Into each life some escapades must fall, you know. And, by the way, if you’ll disentangle your eyes from my gaze just for a minute, and look the other way, you’ll see the august Sir Otho coming, with ‘bless you, my children’ written legibly in every line of his shining morning face.”
Sir Otho came toward them with hearty greetings.
“Well, well, Patty,” he said; “so you already know our friend Austin? That’s good, that’s good! But you must be afraid of him, for he’s one of our coming poets. He’s already a celebrity, you know.”
“Are you a celebrity?” demanded Patty, turning to Floyd Austin.
“I am,” he said, gravely, “why?”