Claudia wondered if she would break the news to Pat. It was strange, but there was nobody to whom she felt compelled to impart her news. There was no one would quite understand and be glad with her in her gladness. Pat was so young, and then you never knew how she would take things. Sometimes she was as hard as nails, and Claudia naturally felt she would like a sympathetic ear.
“I’ve been riding with Mr. Paton,” continued Patricia, pulling Billie’s ear, a proceeding which he bore with the patience of an early Christian martyr. “We had such a jolly gallop. He’s awfully nice, isn’t he?”
“Very nice,” agreed Claudia heartily. She felt that the whole world of men and women were nice this morning, but she could honestly give Paton an emphatic adjective. “He’s a great friend of—of Gilbert Currey’s.”
“He says such quaint things sometimes, and he isn’t a bit like most men you meet. Do you know what we were talking about this morning? We were discussing animals, and how far they feel human emotion, and how much brain they’ve got. He’d been reading some German book on the subject. He’s fond of animals. Oh! he sent you a message.”
“Yes?” Claudia was wondering what the bond of sympathy was between the two men.
“He told me to tell you that he’s ordered that book you wanted from the publisher. And I am to convey an invitation for us both to have tea with him to-day in Kensington Gardens. We don’t need Jujubes.”
Jujubes was a disrespectful name applied to Miss Morrow who had once been with them as governess, and had slid into position of amiable General Utility. She could be used as a chaperon, walking-stick, or sedative. Hence Pat’s nickname for her.
“I promised to go to some theatricals at Stretton House,” said Claudia, grabbing her diary, “and, let me see—yes, I ought to go with Aunt Carrie to call on some people.”
But her words were regretful. She would have loved to sit in the Park and have tea under the trees, where the birds come hopping round your chairs for crumbs, and everything around is green and fragrant. It would have accorded so much better with her mood than paying formal calls on people to whom she couldn’t tell the great and important thing that had happened to her.