"All right!" and Elise threw a sofa cushion and another and another, following them up with a knitted afghan, a silk slumber robe, and then beginning on a pile of newspapers.

Patty, who was lounging on a broad divan, protected her face with a down pillow, and contentedly endured the avalanche.

Then, as the enemy's stock of missiles gave out, she sat up, flinging the impedimenta right and left, and her smiling face and tumbled curls triumphantly braved further assault.

"It's snowing like the very dickens," Elise declared, disconsolately.

"I don't see any snow," and Patty shut her blue eyes tight.

"Of course you don't, you old goose! If a roaring Bengal tiger stood in front of you, with full intent of eating you at once, you'd shut your eyes and say, 'There isn't any tiger there.' That is, if you had time to get the words out before you slipped down his throat."

Leisurely, Patty got up, shook her rumpled skirts, and walked to the window.

"It does look like snow," she observed, critically eyeing the landscape.

"Look like snow!" cried Elise; "it's a blizzard, that's what it is!"

"Well, doesn't a blizzard look like snow? It does to me. And I don't know anything nicer than a whole long day in the house. I'm having the time of my life."

Patty threw herself into a big armchair, in front of the blazing log fire, and contentedly held out her slippered feet to the glowing warmth.

"But we were going to play tennis, and–"

"My dear child, tennis will keep. And what's the use of growling? As you remark, it is a young blizzard, and we can't possibly stop it, so let's make the best of it, and have what is known in the kiddy-books as Indoor Pastimes."

"Patty, you're enough to exasperate a saint! You and your eternal cheerfulness!"

"All right, anything to please," and Patty assumed a doleful expression, drew down the corners of her mouth, and wrung her hands in mock despair.

"Isn't it mean," she wailed; "here's this horrid, hateful old snowstorm, and we can't go outdoors or anything! I'm mad as a hornet, as a hatter, as a wet hen, as a March hare, as a—as hops, as—what else gets awful mad, Elise?"

"I shall, if you continue to act like an idiot!"

"My good heavens!" and Patty rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, "there's no pleasing her—positively no pleasing her! What to do! What to do!"

But Elise's face had cleared up, and as she looked from the window, she smiled gaily.

"He's coming!" she cried, "Sam's coming!"

Patty hastily adjusted her dignity and sat up with a formal air to greet the visitor, while Elise scrabbled up the sofa cushions and newspapers.

The girls were down at Lakewood. Patty was the guest of Elise, whose family had taken a cottage there for the season. That is, it was called a cottage, but was in reality an immense house, most comfortably and delightfully appointed. Patty was still supposed to be convalescing from her recent illness, but, as a matter of fact, she had regained her health and strength, and, though never robust, was entirely well.

The invitation to Pine Laurel, as the house was called, was a welcome one, and the elder Fairfields were glad to have Patty go there for a fortnight or so. She had arrived but the day before, and now the unexpected snowstorm had spoiled the plans for tennis and other outdoor affairs. Though it was late November, it was early for such a tempestuous snowstorm, and the weather-wise ones opined that it was a mere swift and sudden flurry.

Patty, with her usual adaptability to circumstances, didn't care much, and felt pretty sure the storm would depart as quickly as it had gathered. She was quite willing to stay indoors a day or two if need be, and could easily amuse herself in many ways. Not so Elise. She was impatient and impetuous, and was always greatly put out if her plans went awry. But the diversion of an unexpected guest roused her to animation and she poked the logs to a brighter blaze by way of welcome.

After the sound of stamping and whisking off snow in the hall, a young man came into the pleasant sun-parlour where the girls were.

It was with difficulty that Patty concealed her amazement as she looked at him. He was of a type that she had heard of, but had never before chanced to meet.

Mechanically, she went through the formalities of the introduction, and sat staring at him, without realising that she was doing so.

"Well," said Sam Blaney, at last, "what about it? Do I get a blue ribbon?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" and Patty blushed at her rudeness. "You see, you er—you reminded me of somebody I have met–"

"No, you mean I remind you of somebody you never have met, but are glad to discover at last."

Patty laughed outright, for the words so definitely expressed her state of mind. Thus encouraged, she continued to look at him.

Blaney was not so extraordinary of appearance, but he presented the effects of the class known as artistic. His thick, fair hair, while it could scarcely be called long, was a trifle longer than the conventional cut. His collar, while not Byronic, was low, and he wore a Windsor tie, of a sickly, pale green. He was a big man, but loose-jointed and ungainly of build. His manners were careless, and his voice was low and soft. He had big grey eyes, which seemed especially noticeable by reason of enormous tortoise-rimmed glasses, whose long, thick bows hooked over his ears.

"You are a poet," Patty said, decisively, after a smiling survey; "and you are right, I have always wanted to know a live poet."

"I hope," said Blaney, in a mournful way, "that you don't agree with those wiseacres who think the only good poet is a dead poet."

"Oh, goodness, no!" said Patty, quickly. "But most of the poetry with which I am familiar was written by dead men—that is, they weren't dead when they wrote it, you know–"

"But died from the shock?"

"Now you're making fun of me," and Patty pouted, but as Patty's pout was only a shade less charming than her smile, the live poet didn't seem to resent it.

"Doubtless," he went on, "my work will not be really famous until after I am dead, but some day I shall read them to you, and get your opinion as to their hopes for a future."

"Oh, do read them to Patty," exclaimed Elise; "read them now. That's the very thing for a stormy day!"

"Yes," Patty agreed; "if you have an Ode to Spring, or Lines on a Blooming Daffodil, it would be fine to fling them in the teeth of this storm."

"I see you're by way of being a wag, Miss Fairfield," Blaney returned, good-naturedly. "But you've misapprehended my vein. I write poems, not jingles."

"He does," averred Elise, earnestly. "Oh, Sam, do recite some—won't you?"

"Not now, Lady fair. The setting isn't right, and the flowers are too vivid."

Patty looked at the two large vases of scarlet carnations that stood on the long, massive table in the middle of the room. She had thought them a very pleasant and appropriate decoration for the snowy day, but Blaney's glance at them was disdainful.

"He's an affected idiot!" she exclaimed to herself. "I don't like him one bit!"

"Please like me," said the poet's soft voice, and Patty fairly jumped to realise that he had read her thought in her face.

"Oh, I do!" she said, with mock fervour, and a slight flush of embarrassment at her carelessness. "I like you heaps!"

"Don't be too set up over that," laughed Elise, "for Patty likes everybody. She's the greatest little old liker you ever saw! Why, she even likes people who don't like her."

"Are there such?" asked Blaney, properly.

"Yes, indeed," Patty declared; "and I can't help admiring their good taste."

"I can't either," and Blaney spoke so seriously, that Patty almost gasped.

"That isn't the answer," she smiled; "you should have contradicted me."

"No," the poet went on; "people who don't like you show real discrimination. It is because you are so crude and unformed of soul."

But Patty was too wise to be caught with such chaff.

"Yes, that's it," she said, and nodded her curly head in assent.

"You say yes, because you don't know what I'm talking about. But it's true. If you had your soul scraped and cleaned and properly polished, you would be well worth liking."

"Go on! go on!" cried Patty, clapping her hands. "Now I know you're the real thing in poets! That's the way I thought they would talk! Say more."

But Blaney turned sulky. He scowled at Patty, he threw a reproachful glance at Elise, and the atmosphere suddenly charged with gloom.

Patty felt that it was her fault and that she had perhaps gone too far. The man was Elise's guest and it wasn't right to make fun of him, if he did sound foolish. So, ignoring the past conversation, Patty smiled, and said, "It is too bad about the storm, isn't it? We had expected to have such a fine tennis game today. You play, of course?"

It was a chance shot, but Patty felt pretty sure that such a big, muscular chap would be fond of outdoor sports and, as it turned out, he was. Moreover, it would be a grumpy poet, indeed, who wouldn't relent under the magic of Patty's smile.

"Yes, I do," he replied, animatedly, and then the talk turned to the game, and the chances of the storm abating and play being possible in a day or two.

"Hello, Blaney," said Roger Farrington, coming into the room. "How's everything?"

"All right, Farry. How goes it with you?"

"Fine. I say, girls, are you game for a little two-cent sleigh ride in the storm? As soon as it stops snowing, the flakes will melt like morning dew, and, if we catch a ride at all, it must be immejit. How about it?"

"I'd love to go!" cried Patty, her eyes sparkling. "I haven't had a sleigh ride in ages–"

"And no telling when you will again," said Roger. "But it's blowing great guns, and snowing fast. You're sure you want to go?"

"Course we do," insisted Elise. "Shall we get our things now?"

"Not quite yet. I'll have to telephone Mr. Livery Man for a rig. This otherwise well-stocked outfit that we're inhabiting doesn't have such a thing on the premises as a sleigh. I'll go and see about it."

"Can't we stop and pick up Alla?" suggested Elise.

"No," and Sam Blaney shook his head decidedly. "My sister wouldn't think of putting her nose out-of-doors on a day like this. I'm surprised that you will, Miss Fairfield."

"Oh, I'm a tough pine knot. I may not look the part, but I assure you wind and weather have no terrors for me."

"That's so," put in Elise. "Patty looks like a chaff which the wind driveth away, but it would be a pretty strong old wind that could do it."

"You can't tell by looks; my sister looks like a strong, hearty girl, but she's as fragile as a spring crocus."

"There's nothing fragiler than that," Patty remarked; "I've often tried to keep the flimsy little things for a few hours, and even in water they droop and peak and pine all to pieces."

"That's just like Alla," said Blaney. "She's psychic, you see–"

"Oh, is she!" cried Patty. "I've always wanted to know a real psychic.

Mayn't I meet her?"

"Indeed you may, she'll be pleased. Will you come round to the studio today, while we're out sleighing?"

"No, not today," said Elise, positively. "Roger wouldn't stand for it. He'll want to put in all the time there is on the road. And he's going to New York tonight, I think."

"Oh, yes," and Blaney remembered. "Let's see, his wedding day is—when is it?"

"Not till the fifteenth of December. But he and Mona have so much to look after and attend to, that he spends most of his time on the road between here and New York."

"Isn't Mona coming down here while I'm here?" asked Patty.

"She promised to," Elise replied, "but Mona's promises are not to be implicitly depended on just now. She's getting married with all her time and attention."

"Well, a wedding like hers is to be does take a lot of planning. And Mona's looking after everything herself. She's a genius at that sort of thing, but it seems as if she ought to have some one to help her,—some relative, I mean."

"Her father's a big help," said Roger, who had returned just in time to hear Patty's remark.

"Yes, I know it, but I mean a woman relative."

"I know," agreed Roger. "You're right, in a way. But Mona is so accustomed to managing for herself that I'm pretty sure a meddling relative would bother her to death."

"Probably would," agreed Patty. "Do we go sleigh-ridy, Roger?"

"We do. The fiery steeds will be here in fifteen minutes. Get warm wraps, for it's blowing like blazes. Shall we go 'round by your studio, Sam, and drop in on Alla?"

"No, please. I don't want to seem inhospitable, but I've decided I want Miss Fairfield to see the studio first under proper conditions. I want Alla to know when she's coming and–"

"And have her hair frizzed. I get you. All right. We'll drive 'round the lake, and see how the going is, and then decide whether to keep on, or go to some friend's for a cup of tea."

"You mustn't think my sister is a fuss," said Blaney to Patty, as she started to leave the room. "But you know the artist soul likes to have the stage rightly set for an important scene."

"Yes," said Patty, a little puzzled.

"Yes. And your advent at my studio is a most important scene–"

"Why?" asked Patty, bluntly.

"Because you're important. In fact, I may say you're the most important person I have ever seen."

"Really? But if you say things like that, you'll make me vain."

"You can't well be vainer than you are."

Patty looked up in sudden anger at this speech, but Blaney's eyes were quietly amused, and his soft voice was so innocent of offence, that Patty was uncertain what attitude to assume, and to save the necessity of a reply she ran from the room and upstairs to get ready for the ride.

CHAPTER II

A STUDIO PARTY

As Roger had predicted, the snow departed as quickly as it came, and two days after their sleigh ride there was scarcely a vestige of white on the ground. Tennis was again possible and a great game was in progress on the court at Pine Laurel. Patty and Roger were playing against Elise and Sam Blaney, and the pairs were well matched.

But the long-contested victory finally went against Patty, and she laughingly accepted defeat.

"Only because Patty's not quite back on her game yet," Roger defended; "this child has been on the sick list, you know, Sam, and she isn't up to her own mark."

"Well, I like that!" cried Patty; "suppose you bear half the blame, Roger. You see, Mr. Blaney, he is so absorbed in his own Love Game, he can't play with his old-time skill."

"All right, Patsy, let it go at that. And it's so, too. I suddenly remembered something Mona told me to tell you, and it affected my service."

"What is it?" asked Elise. "Anything of importance?"

"Yes; it's this: Mona has decided to sell Red Chimneys, and Philip Van Reypen thinks it a good plan to buy it for the Children's Home."

"For gracious' sake!" exclaimed Patty. "That is news! Why doesn't Phil tell me about it?"

"That's just it. He's coming down here tomorrow to talk it over with you. Mona's coming too, you know, and you can all have a powwow."

"All right," and Patty wagged her head, sagaciously. "It's not a bad idea at all. I knew Mr. Galbraith was thinking of selling the Spring Beach place, and it would be a fine house for the kiddies."

"And are you running a Children's Home?" asked Sam Blaney, as they all strolled back to the house, and paused on the wide veranda.

"Too cool for you out here, Patty?" asked Elise.

"Not a bit of it. I love the outdoors. Somebody find me a sweater and a rug, and I'll be as happy as a clam."

Roger brought a red silk sweater from the hall, and a big, soft steamer rug, and proceeded to tuck Patty up, snugly.

"Yes," she said, turning to Blaney, and answering his inquiry, "I am supposed to be organising a Children's Home, but all the hard work is done for me, and I only say yes or no, to easy questions. You see, a dear old friend of mine left me a sum of money for the purpose, and I want to prove a trustworthy steward. But we're not going to do anything definite until Spring, unless, as Red Chimneys is in the market, it seems advisable to secure it while we can."

"Goodness, Patty," said Elise; "you talk like a Board of Managers!"

"That's what I am; or, rather, I'm Manager of the Board. Is Philip coming tonight, Roger?"

"Yes, he'll be here for dinner. And Mona, too. I say, Blaney, we'll bring 'em along to your party, eh?"

"Of course. Alla will be delighted to have them. No matter if we're crowded. You see, Miss Fairfield, our place is small, but our welcome is vurry, vurry large–" Blaney waved his long arms, as if including the whole world in his capacious welcome.

"You're vurry, vurry kind," returned Patty, unconsciously imitating his peculiar pronunciation. "I'm just crazy to see your studio. It seemed as if the time would never come. And I want to meet your sister, too. I know it will be a lovely party. I've never been to a real Bohemian Studio party."

"Oh, we don't call it Bohemian, because, you see, it is Bohemian. Only make-believe Bohemians call themselves so. You'll learn to distinguish the difference."

"I hope so. I've always wanted to know what Bohemianism really is."

"We'll show you tonight. What are you going to wear?"

"My goodness, I don't know. I hadn't thought about it. Also, I've never been asked a question like that before."

"Ah, but it means so much! If your gown should be out of key–" Blaney rolled up his eyes and spread his hands, as if the thought were too appalling for words.

Patty giggled. "I hope it won't be," she said. "But, tell me, what is the key? Maybe I can strike it."

"The key," and the poet looked thoughtful, "ah, yes, I have it! The key will be saffron and ultramarine."

Patty gasped. "Oh, I haven't a frock to my name in those colours!"

"But you can harmonise,—yes, harmonise. You will, won't you? If you didn't, I couldn't bear it."

"Oh, then I'll harmonise, yes, I promise you I will. I'll find something that won't make a discord. But can you dictate to all your guests like this?"

"Alas, no! Would that I might! And now I must go. Alla will be wanting me."

"What is he, anyway?" said Patty, as after his adieux, the poet swung away, with his queer, loping gait.

"Bats in his belfry," returned Roger, laughing. "He's the real thing in high-art souls,—if you get what I mean."

"Oh, I don't know," demurred Patty; "I think he's sincere."

"You do! Well, he may be, for all of me. But if he is, give me base deception, every time! Don't you fall in love with him, Patty, Van Reypen wouldn't stand for it."

"I don't know what Mr. Van Reypen has to say about it," returned Patty, with a heightened colour. "And remember, Roger, not everybody is so absorbed in loving and being loved as you are!"

Patty's roguish smile was affectionate as well, for she was fond of Roger, and also of Mona, and she was deeply interested in their love affair. Their engagement had been a short one, and now that the wedding day was so near, the whole Farrington family could think or talk of little else. And as a house guest and a dear friend, Patty, too, was enthusiastic and excited about the preparations.

And then Roger went off to the train to meet Mona, and Philip, who came down at the same time, and Elise disappeared and Patty sat alone, in the falling dusk, snugly tucked in her rugs, and feeling very lazy and comfortable and happy.

Her thoughts drifted idly from one subject to another, and presently she heard a step beside her, and felt her hand taken in somebody's warm clasp.

"Philip!" she cried, starting up.

"Yes, my girl, and so glad to see you again. How are you?"

"Fine. This splendid air and luxurious living has made me all well again."

"That's good. But it's too late for you to be out here. Come on in the house."

"Yes, I will. Did Mona come?"

"Yes, we came down together. How that girl is improving!"

"What do you mean? She always was a fine character."

"Yes, but she has so much more—er—sweetness and light."

"That's so. I've noticed it ever since she's been engaged."

"Well, don't you put on any more sweetness and light when you get engaged. I simply couldn't stand it! You're chock-a-block full of it now!"

"Don't worry. Besides, I've no intention of being engaged. What's the use, if I'm sweet and light enough now?"

"You're going to announce your engagement in just fifteen days from now, my lady. Why, that will be Farrington's wedding day! By Jove, what an idea! We'll announce it at their wedding!"

"We'll do nothing of the sort. You take too much for granted."

"Well, you promised–"

"I know what I promised. But the fifteenth is a long way off yet."

"That may be, but it's bound to get here. Come in the house now. It's too damp for you out here."

They went in, and found Mona and Elise chattering like two magpies, with Roger trying to get in a word edgeways.

"Hello, Patty," cried Mona, springing up to greet her. "My, how fine you're looking! Lakewood agrees with you all right. And Patty, the bridesmaids are going to sing, after all. Will you be home in time for one or two rehearsals?"

"Yes, indeed. I'll come up whenever you want me, Mona."

"Good girl. Now I must go and dress for dinner. I'd no idea we'd get here so late; and Roger says there's a party on for tonight."

"Yes," laughed Patty; "and it's a party you have to get keyed up to,—I mean your gown."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come along and I'll tell you."

The two girls went off together, and half an hour later Elise found them in Patty's room, still talking and no beginning made in the matter of dressing.

But later, when the young people left the house to go to the Studio party, they were resplendent of costume. Patty had told the other girls what Mr. Blaney had said, and though they scoffed at it, they agreed not to wear anything that might be too desperately inharmonious.

Mona was in white, declaring that that could offend nobody. Elise wore pale yellow, for the same logical reason. Patty had on a gown of soft chiffon, of old-gold colour, which, she said, was the nearest to saffron she had ever had or ever hoped to have.

"I don't like the word saffron," she declared; "somehow it makes me think of camomile tea."

"Naturally," said Roger; "I believe they're both yarbs. Blaney might call this affair a Saffron Tea, and have done with it."

But the gown was most becoming to Patty. The dull old-gold tints sets off her fair skin, and her bright gold hair, piled high, was topped with a gold and amber comb. Round her throat was an old-fashioned necklace of topazes, lent her by Mrs. Farrington. Altogether, she looked, Philip declared, positively Burne-Jonesey, and he called her the Blessed Damosel.

When at last they entered the Studio of the Blaney brother and sister, Patty blinked several times, before she could collect her senses. It was very dimly lighted, and a strange, almost stifling sense of oppression came over her. This was caused by the burning of various incense sticks and pastilles which gave out a sweet, spicy odour, and which made a slight haze of smoke. Becoming a little accustomed to the gloom, Patty discerned her host, amazingly garbed in an Oriental burnoose and a voluminous silk turban. He took her hand, made a deep salaam, and kissed her finger-tips with exaggerated ceremony.

"My sister, Alla," he said, "Miss Fairfield."

Patty looked up to see a tall, gaunt woman smiling at her. Miss Blaney, like her brother, was long, lanky and loose-jointed, and seemed to desire to accentuate these effects. Her ash-coloured hair was parted and drawn loosely down to a huge knot at the back of her neck. A band of gilt filigree was round her head at the temples, and was set with a huge green stone which rested in the middle of her forehead. Long barbaric earrings dangled and shook with every movement of her head, and round her somewhat scrawny neck was coiled an ugly greenish serpent of some flexible metal formation. For the rest, Miss Blaney wore a flowing robe of saffron yellow, a most sickly shade, and the material was frayed and worn as if it had been many times made over. It hung from her shoulders in billowy folds, and the wearer was evidently proud of it, for she continually switched its draperies about and gazed admiringly at them.

"Frightfully glad to see you," this weird creature was saying, and Patty caught her breath, and murmured, "Oh, thank you. So kind of you to ask me."

"I feel sure I shall adore you," Miss Blaney went on; "you are simpatica,—yes, absolutely simpatica."

"Am I?" and Patty smiled. "And is it nice to be simpatica? It doesn't mean a simpleton, does it?"

"Oh, how droll! My dear, how droll!" and Miss Blaney went off in contortions of silent laughter. "Just for that, you must call me Alla. I always want droll people to call me by my first name. And your name is–"

"Patty."

"Impossible! You can't be named that! Incredible! Ooh!"

Alla ended with a half-breathed shriek.

"Oh, well," said Patty, hastily, "my name is really Patricia, though no one ever calls me that."

"I shall call you that. Patricia! Perfect! You couldn't have been better dubbed. No, not possibly better dubbed. Patricia, ah, Patricia!"

Patty edged away a little. She began to think her hostess was crazy.

But Alla went on:

"And my brother, Patricia, do you not adore him?"

"Well, you see, I've only seen him a few times. I can't quite agree that I adore him, yet."

"But you will. As soon as you have heard his poems, you will put him on a pedestal, yes, on a high pedestal. And tonight you will hear him read his wonderful lines. What a treat you have in store!"

And then new arrivals claimed Miss Blaney's attention, and Patty turned aside. She found Philip waiting for her, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"What is it all?" he whispered; "a bear garden?"

"Hush, Phil, don't make me laugh. Did you ever see anything like it?"

"Well, I've been to Studio jinks, but they were to this as moonlight unto sunlight and as water unto wine! Shall I take you home?"

"No, indeed! I want to see the fun. I've never been to a Studio jinks,—or whatever you call it, and I want to live and learn."

"All right, Patty. You shall stay as long as you like, but I'll wager that inside of an hour you'll be begging me to get you out of it."

"All right, if I do, I shall expect you to take me away. Let's look at the room."

They sauntered about, and finally sat down on a Turkish divan, which proved much lower than they had anticipated.

"What an uncomfortable thing!" said Patty, "but sit here a minute, while I look round."

From the ceiling hung Moorish-looking lamps, which gave almost no light, and, were of rather dilapidated appearance. The furniture, too, was not only antique, but wabbly-legged and here and there tied up with strings or leather thongs. Statuettes were about, broken and dusty; jugs and bowls of dull brass and copper; rickety screens; enormous unframed photographs, warped and faded, but bearing splashing and unintelligible autographs; and draperies of all sorts, from old shawls to tattered ecclesiastical robes.

"I see what Mr. Blaney meant by the key of saffron," said Patty, sagely. "Everything is that colour because of the accumulation of dust and dirt! I don't believe this place has ever had a good house-cleaning!"

"Oh, Patty, my dear child! Don't thus expose your ignorance! Bohemia never cleans house! The very thought is sacrilege!"

"Why is it? Some of this old brass stuff would be lovely if it were cleaned up. And look at that copper kettle! It's positively blue!"

"But that's what they want, dear," said Van Reypen, smiling at her.

"Howsumever, I'm glad you don't like it. We won't model our home on a Bohemian plan."

"And look at the people," went on Patty, in an awe-struck whisper. "Some of them are decent, like our crowd,—but look at that girl in orange!"

The girl in question wore a costume of flame-coloured woolen material that was indeed striking. Her black hair was in two long braids, and she was carrying a small musical instrument that Philip said was a zithern.

"I don't know," he went on, "but I fancy she will play a sort of accompaniment to our host's poems. They generally work it that way."

"Stop making fun, Phil," reproved Patty; "perhaps the poems will be lovely,—with musical setting."

"Perhaps," said Philip.