"Wish you were going along," said the artist, meeting the Irishman's approving gaze.
"I will as soon as ye need a valet," was the reply. "Ye think I can't put on style!" Pat winked and shook his head knowingly. "Ye'd burst wid pride if ye saw me fixed up and waitin' on ye."
"I haven't a doubt of it. Well, so long. It will be only a few nights before I shall be back, sizzling with you again." And Phil gave the man a smiling nod and went out of the door, almost running into the arms of Mrs. Fabian, who, in the trimmest of cool grey travelling gowns, was looking askance at a spring and mattress outside the barn door.
Pat aghast, hastened to button the open throat of his shirt. "The Queen o' Sheby," he muttered.
"Why, did I keep you waiting, Aunt Isabel?" asked Phil, with contrition. "I was planning to be out in front in plenty of time."
"Yes, it is early, but I wanted to speak to your man a minute."
Pat bowed in the direction of the voluminous grey chiffon veil. "You may go out and join Kathleen," Mrs. Fabian added.
"Dear me, nothing private, I hope," said Phil, vastly amused by the conflicting emotions on the Irishman's face.
"Have you seen to putting your evening clothes away?" asked Mrs. Fabian.
"Why—why, they're hanging up there in the closet."