“I don’t say she has more iv it than other childern,” Riley explained to Mrs. Gorham; “but th’ divvle is in ’em all.  Go ’long wid ye’er ride, Missus Gorham, an’ lave her ter me.  ‘Tis th’ firm hand I’ll be afther showin’ her, but th’ tinder wan, like I done wid her fa-ather forty year ago.  Ye lave her ter me, ma’m.”

So the motor-party set out with one member of it uncertain of what might happen during her absence; but there was no uncertainty in Patricia’s mind.  She watched the departure of the car from the window, and then slammed the door, knowing well that the noise would arouse all sorts of apprehensions in Riley’s soul.  A vigorous knock soon rewarded her efforts.

“Come in,” she called, innocently.

Riley stood in the doorway, with a hand resting on each hip, astonished into silence by the peaceful scene before him.  Patricia was seated in the middle of the bed, completely surrounded with pillows, and fanning herself nonchalantly.

“Phwat made ye slam th’ dure?” he demanded.

“Did it slam?” she asked.  “It must have been the draught.  There’s an awful draught around this apartment—­haven’t you noticed it, Riley?”

“I haven’t noticed nuthin’ excep’ that ye are a bad little gurl.”

“It’s the ‘divvle’ in me—­coming out, isn’t it, Riley?  That’s what you told mamma Eleanor, and you ought to know.”

“Shure, I ought ter know, an’ I do know.”

“I thought you did.”  Patricia smiled sweetly.  “But if a person has the ‘divvle’ in him, it is much better to let it get out.”

“’Twud take more room than there is here ter let it all out iv ye,” retorted the irate Riley.

“You are no gentleman, Mr. Riley, to speak to a lady like that,” she said, severely.  “You may go now.”

“Will ye be th’ good gurl if I lave ye by yersel’?”

“How do I know if it’s all out of me?”

“Shure, it oughter be,” he declared, in despair.  “Will ye thry?”

“Certainly, I’ll try.”  Patricia was demureness itself.  “If anything happens, it will be the ‘divvle’s’ fault, so you mustn’t hold me responsible.”

“It’s ye’er own divvle, ain’t it?—­ye can make it do what ye want.”

“I don’t know,” protested Patricia.  “I didn’t even know I had a ‘divvle.’  It was you who discovered it; and people who discover things have to be responsible for them, don’t they?”

Riley shook his head in desperation.  His arguments were exhausted, and all that was left to him was retreat.

“I wuddent be that child’s gov’ness f’r all th’ money in th’ world,” he muttered, as he shuffled through the hall.  “An’ ter think they lift her home fr’m ch’ice.  ‘Twas th’ lucky day f’r Miss Mary—­but I wish her here.”

Finding the coast clear, Patricia moved the scene of her activity to the reception-room.  Here she undertook to put into execution the latest idea which had struck her fancy, which was nothing less than a medieval tournament on as elaborate a scale as the properties at hand would permit.  The hotel had not been furnished with an eye to contests of chivalry, but chairs, turned wrong-side up and covered with table-cloths, made richly caparisoned steeds; and Patricia’s imagination easily supplied the riders.