"Does Mr. Covington seem likely to be that man?" Allen asked, pertinently.
"I have no more idea of marrying him than he has of marrying me," Alice stated, flatly. "I admire him extravagantly. He is a self-made man—"
"The good Lord must be pleased to be relieved of that responsibility,"
Allen interrupted, ill-naturedly.
"You mustn't be so prejudiced against him," she reproved him. "He is one of the ablest business men in New York—daddy has told me that—yet, out of respect to my father and kindness to me, he is giving me more of his time, I know, than he can spare. I am very grateful to him."
"Well"—Allen started to take his departure—"we don't seem to have made much progress; but, at any rate, you know where I stand. I shan't buy any crêpe until I receive the wedding cards, and in the mean time"—he bowed very low—"please don't overlook the fact that yours truly is your greatest responsibility, and one which you can't shake off."
Standing in the hall at the foot of the stairs, Allen discovered a figure militant awaiting his descent. Patricia was indignant and excited.
"Hello, Lady Pat!" cried Allen. "What's happened?"
Patricia stamped her foot. "Alice is a naughty, naughty girl," she cried, with tears in her eyes. "I don't love her any more."
"Tut, tut." Allen sat on the lowest step and soothed the child. "Alice is all right."
"No, she isn't," Patricia insisted. Then she pulled away from him and again stood very straight, immaculate in her white frock. "I've been listening up-stairs."