"Who's talking about me?" asked a gay voice, and into the room walked Patty's sister Rose.
"I am. I have been telling Patty about the invitation."
"Poor Patty!" said Rose, and she put her arm sympathetically round Patty's neck. "Aunt Glendower is most unkind, I think."
"It can't be helped," murmured Patty, choking back the rising sob. "If I had been born a sweet maiden who did nothing but stitch at fancy-work all day long perhaps she would have invited me, but I can't give up my cricket, my riding my horse bare-backed, my shooting, just for the sake of a ball or two that Aunt Glendower feels inclined to give once a year. Much as I love dancing, I can't give up all these pleasures for an occasional dance."
"Rose has pleasures too," said her father quietly, "but they are of the womanly kind—music, painting, reading, tending flowers."
Rose laughed gaily as Patty turned up her pretty nose scornfully.
"Let Patty alone, dad. You know very well that you would grow tired of too much sameness if Patty showed the same tastes that I have."
Colonel Bingham glanced fondly at her and then at Patty, whose face, in spite of her brave words, was still very tearful-looking. He knew that in his heart he loved his two daughters equally—his "two motherless girls," as he was wont to call them—and although he belonged to the old school of those who abhor masculine pursuits for women, yet he felt that Rose's words were true, and for that very dissimilarity did he love them.
"Heigho," said Patty, jumping off her chair, "I am not going to grieve any more. Let's talk of Rose's dress, and when she is going."
"We both start to-morrow."