"Syl is writing reams to her John," she explained. "I doubt if she noticed my leaving. She probably thinks I'm still singing."
And then Joan told Patricia about the man who, for some unknown reason, had made himself permanent in her interest.
"I wish I knew about him," she murmured; "I cannot recall any one in the least like him in Mrs. Tweksbury's life. I don't want to ask Aunt Doris—besides, he may just be a chance acquaintance of Mrs. Tweksbury's. I hardly think that, though—for she looks volumes at him and he sort of appropriates her."
Patricia was frankly interested—she was flying, and at such moments her bird's-eye view was a wide and sympathetic one.
Joan, too, in this mood was bewitching.
"All Joan needs," thought Patricia, "is to discover her sex appeal; get it on a leash and take it out walking. She's like a marionette now—hopping about, doing stunts, but not conscious of her performance."
"Lamb!" Patricia lighted a fresh cigarette, "a week from to-night you breeze in here and what I do not know about your young man, by that time, will not count for or against him."
"But, Pat, do be careful!" Joan was frightened by what she had set in motion.
"Careful, lamb? Why, if carefulness wasn't my keynote, I'd be—well! I wouldn't be here."