Timothy poked more leaves. They were scarcely at the corner of Madison Avenue. “When one can whistle like that,” he observed to a silent sparrow on the curb, “there is some point in letting the world know about it.”
Patsy stopped whistling at once. “I always want to whistle when Warren’s mother is about—even when it’s only in conversation. See here, Timmie,” the small hand clutched her brother’s arm confidentially, “don’t you—haven’t you always thought Warren’s mother was a bit of a muff?”
Timothy paused, over his glasses. “Muff?” he repeated—stupidly, Patsy thought. “Muff—that was a pretty one she sent the Angel, wasn’t it? All white and soft and fuzzy. She——”
“Oh, never mind, then,” Patsy cut him off impatiently. “If you’re not going to agree with me, where’s the use of arguing? I couldn’t help it if she did send the Angel a muff—anyway, he sha’n’t carry it!” she added, vindictively, under her breath. “Convention, tradition, what people will say—booh! How sick I am of it all—wish I could make every one of those words waltz themselves out of the big dic. forever!”
“Ah—about this present for Doromea——” When Timothy said that name, Patsy looked up quickly; there was no earthly reason why a lump should rise in her throat, but—“Doromea,” Timothy repeated, as though for very spite. “It must be a very nice present, you know.”
“Then we’ll go to ——,” said Patsy, swallowing emphatically. “Everybody goes there; my—my ring came from there, and Claire’s, and all our family have always bought things there. It’s a sort of——”
“Habit?” supplied Timothy, kindly.
“Yes, habit.” Patsy gave a sigh of relief. If Timothy should have guessed that she had almost said tradition! “Certainly, habit—and, well, we’re right there now, Timothy. It must be a ring, I suppose?”
Timothy’s gray eyes darkened to absorption. “I should say a ring might do,” he deliberated.
“Sure thing!” Patsy was standing near a person who looked like Warren’s mother, so she repeated, “Sure thing!” loudly and cheerfully. The person started. “Diamonds—eh, Timmie? But”—to the clerk—“not a solitaire. Solitaires”—feeling her own, under the heavy glove—“are so ordinary!”