"Do you really like it?" asked Patty, and her voice trembled with pleasure. "Father hates it, but men never know."
Corinna laughed. "Not much more about fashions than they know about women."
"And that isn't anything, is it?"
"Well, perhaps they'll learn some day—by the time I am dead and you are old. You look so young, you can't be over eighteen."
"I'll be nineteen next summer—at least I think I shall, for nobody knows exactly when my birthday comes."
"Not even your father?"
"No, he guesses it's in June, but he isn't perfectly sure, and he hasn't any idea what day of the month it is. He gives me a birthday gift whenever he happens to think of it."
For a minute Corinna gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "It is queer the things men can't remember," she said at last. "Now, my father always forgets, or pretends to, that I've ever been married."
"Then I needn't be so surprised," rejoined Patty brightly, "when mine forgets that I ever was born!"
"Oh, he doesn't forget it really, my dear. He adores you."