Patsy assures me that, even in their impertinences, the young blades of the town are never crass; but show, rather, a lively humour and child-like interest in the lady of their admiration. I well remember that first evening, after the hauptmann had left us, when my niece told me seriously that she was convinced of the grave libel cast on Austrians as a whole and Austrian officers in particular.
“You know, Uncle Peter,” says she, swinging to my arm, as we enter our hotel, “they say they are horrid and dissipated, and will take the first opportunity to say shocking things to a girl. But I think they are far too clever for that, besides too fine. I am sure they know what one is, the minute they look at one; and behave accordingly. Don’t you,” adds Patsy anxiously, “think so too, Uncle Peter?”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” I return dubiously, “but there’s their architecture, you know. You can’t get round that. What people build—”
A slim hand is clapped over my mouth. And, “you are to remember please,” says Patsy severely, “we are talking now not of architects but of officers.”
It was true. And, singularly, we have been talking of them a good deal ever since.
II
THE PLAYERS WHO NEVER GROW OLD
Not many days after our establishment in the Carnival City, Patsy had her first experience with the smart “masher” and his unique little game. I being by no means bred to chaperoning, and in all respects, besides, immorally modern, allowed the young lady to go round the corner to a sweet-shop unaccompanied. She came back with a high colour instead of caramels, and—no, there is no way of softening it—she was giggling.
Patsy never giggles unless something scandalous has happened. “What’s the matter?” I asked, instantly alarmed.
She tumbled into a chair, laughing helplessly. “The—the funniest thing,” she began, gasping.
“A man, I suppose?”