“Don’t worry about me,” the boy said, dejectedly.  “You’re probably right, just as the pater was probably right.  I’m no good anyhow.  I didn’t want to go into diplomacy because there seemed to be so much in it which was double-dealing.  Now I’m in business, and I see the same things there.  It’s all my fault—­it must be; but I’m in wrong somehow.  I wouldn’t say a word, Alice, if it were some one else, but Covington—­well, you’ve told me to cut that out, so I will.  But don’t say we can’t be friends—­I couldn’t stand that.  You’ll need me some time, little girl, and when you do, I want to be Johnny on the spot.”

Alice never found it possible to be angry with him for any extended period.  Always after his impulsive outbreaks he became so contrite that the early displeasure was abated by his unspoken but evident desire for forgiveness.

“Will you take back what you said about Mr. Covington?” she asked.

“I can’t do that,” he replied, firmly; “but I’ll do my best to let you find him out from some one else.”

And the girl let him leave it there, remaining in the same position several minutes after he had gone, wondering that she had been willing to permit so gross a slander to stand unchallenged.  When at last she turned slowly toward the door, she started violently as something began to untangle itself from the portieres.

“It’s only me,” announced Patricia, ungrammatically, but none the less undauntedly.

“What have you been doing there?” the elder sister demanded, her momentary fright making her indignation even greater.

“Listenin’,” replied the culprit, shamelessly.

“Patricia Gorham!” For Alice to use the child’s full name conveyed the absolute limit of reproach, but Patricia stood her ground fearlessly.

“I’m not ashamed—­I’ve simply got to know my future.  You’ll stick to what you said, won’t you, Alice?”

“You ought to be punished!”

“But you won’t marry Allen, will you?” Pat pleaded, unblushingly.  “You can have Mr. Covington and I will have Allen, and we all will be happy ever afterward.”

“Oh, you—­kids, that’s what you both are!” Alice cried in sheer desperation.  “Between you, I can’t get a moment’s peace.”

“He would make a lovely Knight.”  Patricia’s face assumed an enraptured expression.  “Oh, I wish I was a damosel, with a vessel of gold between my hands, and Allen was Sir Launcelot, and I would say, ‘Wit ye well,’ and he would kneel and say his prayers to me, and—­Alice, what does ’Wit ye well’ mean, anyhow?”

But Alice had fled, leaving Patricia the victrix of her bloodless battle-field.

XVIII