“For it doesn’t make the slightest difference who you are,” she said, as she danced with Brother Sebastian, who was garbed as a Friar of Orders Grey.
“No,” he returned, in a hollow, sepulchral voice, which he seemed to think suited to his monk’s attire.
“And you needn’t try to disguise your voice so desperately,” said Patty, laughing gaily, “for probably I don’t know you, anyhow. And you don’t know me, do you?”
“I don’t know your name,” said the monk, still in hollow tones, “but I know you’re a dancer from the professional stage, and not just a young woman in private life.”
“Good gracious!” cried Patty, horrified. “I’m nothing of the sort! I’m a simple-minded little country girl, and I dance because I can’t help it. I love to dance, but I must say that a monk’s robe on one’s partner is a little troublesome. I think all the time I’m going to trip on it.”
“Oh, all right; I’ll fix that,” said the monk, and he held up the skirts of his long robe until they cleared the floor.
“That’s better,” said Patty, “but it does spoil the picturesqueness of your costume. Let’s promenade for a while, and then you can let your robes drag in proper monkian fashion.”
“Much obliged to you for not saying monkey fashion! I certainly do feel foolish, dressed up in this rig.”
“Why, you ought not to, in that plain gown. Just look at the things some of the men have on!”
“I know it. Look at that court jester; he must feel a fool!”