“But, Sir Otho,” observed Floyd Austin, in his slow, quiet way, “Bartlett is not such a bad boundary. His book is like a bird’s-eye view of a city,—which is always a good thing, for one can then pick out the churches and monuments so easily.”
“Yes, and one can miss the most interesting bits that lurk in narrow streets and obscure corners.”
“True enough, and so we both have the best of the argument.”
Floyd Austin was a popular favourite, and one of the explanations of his popularity lay in the fact that he rarely continued to disagree with any one. The discomfiture of another, which is so pleasing to some clever people, was positively painful to his sensitive nature, and so easily adaptable were his own opinions, that he could adjust them to suit those of another with no trouble at all. This made his character somewhat indefinite, but added to the charm of his personality, and his sunny good nature was a quick passport to the good will of a new acquaintance.
One of Austin’s minor interests was harmony of colour. He looked at Patty as she stood leaning lightly against the back of the chair from which she had risen at Sir Otho’s approach. She wore a long summer cloak of a light tan-coloured silk, lined with another silk that was pink, like a seashell.
Simply cut, the long full folds almost hid her white frock, and she gathered the yielding material about her with a graceful gesture.
“How well you wear that cape, Miss Fairfield,” said Floyd, and then turning to Sir Otho, he asked, “Doesn’t she?”
“Why, yes; I daresay,” said the older man, uncertainly. “Do you, Patty?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl, laughing. “I hope so, I’m sure, for it’s one of my favourite wraps. Are you an artist, Mr. Austin, that you’re so observant?”