Patty laughed at this, and concluded to wear her sash.
“You’ll be wasted on him, then,” she added, “for you do look bewitching in that mauve tulle.”
Nan did look lovely in her pretty evening gown, and Mr. Fairfield had reason to feel proud of the two distinguished-looking ladies he escorted downstairs.
“Don’t bother with that ridiculous elevator,” said Patty, as she led the way to the staircase. “I think its rheumatism is bad to-day. It grunts fearfully, and limps like everything.”
“It never seems well on Mondays,” said Nan, sympathetically. “I think it’s overworked, poor thing.”
“Overworked!” put in Mr. Fairfield; “it makes about three round trips each day.”
“I like better to walk down, anyway,” said Patty. “These staircases are so red velvety, and white marble-y, and gold-banister-y.” And with a hop, skip, and jump, she landed on the lower hall floor.
“Behave yourself, Patty,” admonished Nan. “Don’t jump around like an infant, even if you are wearing a little girl’s sash.”
“I’ve learned,” said Patty, with an air of great wisdom, “that an American young woman in Rome may do anything she chooses, and she is excused just because she’s Murrican.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said her father. “You behave yourself properly, or you can’t go dining out with your elders again.”