On the way up-town in the machine Patricia examined him, smiling curiously.
“What a delusion you are, Ross Burnett! Railing in one moment at matrimony and in the next, tagging around like a tame bear at the heels of the first pretty girl that crosses your path.”
“She is pretty, isn’t she?” he admitted, promptly.
“And quite the rage—this is her third season you know. You seemed to be getting on very rapidly——”
“Oh, it was all a mistake,” Burnett laughed. “She thought I was an artist.”
“An artist? What in the world——”
“I’m going to do her portrait——”
“You!” Patricia leaned forward eagerly. “What do you mean?”
“That I’m brother Philip—the chap that did the Agatha. She mistook me for him, and she was so nice about it that I didn’t like to interfere.”
Crabb was lighting a cigarette.