“Do you think so?” said Patty, almost choking with suppressed laughter at this version of Philip’s attitude toward her.
“Yes, I’m sure he did. For usually he likes my companions—especially if they’re pretty. And you’re pretty, Miss Fairfield. Not the type I admire myself,—I prefer brunettes,—but still you are pretty in your own way.”
“Thank you,” said Patty, meekly.
“And you’re especially pretty when you dance. I wish you could dance for me now; but, of course, I wouldn’t let you dance on Sunday. That’s the worst of Sundays. There’s so little one can do.”
“Shall I sing hymns to you?” inquired Patty, gently, for she really felt sorry for the discontented old lady.
“Yes, if you like,” was the not very gracious rejoinder, and, without accompaniment, Patty sang the old, well-known hymns in her true, sweet voice.
The twilight was falling, and, as Patty’s soothing music continued, Mrs. Van Reypen fell asleep in her chair.
Exhausted by a really difficult day Patty also dropped into a doze, and the two slept peacefully in their chairs in front of the dying embers of the wood fire.
It was thus that Philip Van Reypen found them as he came softly in at five o’clock.
“Well, I’ll be excused,” he said, to himself, “if I ever saw anything to beat that!”