"Oh, she didn't send me," answered Pat composedly. "It's all my own idea."
"A very good one," grunted Osterhout. "Pat's a connoisseur of music. But don't keep my infant out too late, Scott."
"All right, Pop," returned Scott with mocking deference, as the older man left.
"How long can you wait?" demanded Pat of her escort.
"I can't wait at all. My car is champing at the leash now."
Pat's illumined face fell. "But I can't go this way."
"Why not? I like you that way."
"But you're always so awfully correct. I look like a mess."
"You look like"—he searched for and found the picture—"like a mediæval page."