When a moment or two later, Mrs. Shaw called to her to come, that father was waiting, Patience responded with a very good grace.  But Mr. Dayre caught the wistful look in the child’s face.  “Bless me,” he said heartily.  “You’re not going to take Patience home with you, Mrs. Shaw?  Let her stay for the tea—­the young people won’t keep late hours, I assure you.”

“But I think—­” Mrs. Shaw began very soberly.

“Sometimes, I find it quite as well not to think things over,” Mr. Dayre suggested.  “Why, dear me, I’d quite counted on Patience’s being here.  You see, I’m not a regular member, either; and I want someone to keep me in countenance.”

So presently, Hilary felt a hand slipped eagerly into hers.  “I’m staying!  I’m staying!” an excited little voice announced.  “And oh, I just love Mr. Dayre!”

Then Patience went back to her window seat to play the delightful game of “making believe” she hadn’t stayed.  She imagined that instead, she was sitting between father and mother in the gig, bubbling over with the desire to “hi-yi” at Fanny, picking her slow way along.

The studio was empty, even the dogs were outside, speeding the parting guests with more zeal than discretion.  But after awhile Harry Oram strolled in.

“I’m staying!” Patience announced.  She approved of Harry.  “You’re an artist, too, aren’t you?” she remarked.

“So kind of you to say so,” Harry murmured.  “I have heard grave doubts expressed on the subject by my too impartial friends.”

“I mean to be one when I grow up,” Patience told him, “so’s I can have a room like this—­with just rugs on the floor; rugs slide so nicely—­and window seats and things all cluttery.”

“May I come and have tea with you?  I’d like it awfully.”

“It’ll be really tea—­not pretend kind,” Patience said.  “But I’ll have that sort for any children who may come.  Hilary takes pictures—­she doesn’t make them though.  Made pictures are nicer, aren’t they?”

“Some of them.”  Harry glanced through the open doorway, to where Hilary sat resting.  She was “making” a picture now, he thought to himself, in her white dress, under the big tree, her pretty hair forming a frame about her thoughtful face.  Taking a portfolio from a table near by, he went out to where Hilary sat.

“Your small sister says you take pictures,” he said, drawing a chair up beside hers, “so I thought perhaps you’d let me show you these—­they were taken by a friend of mine.”

“Oh, but mine aren’t anything like these!  These are beautiful!” Hilary bent over the photographs he handed her; marveling over their soft tones.  They were mostly bits of landscape, with here and there a water view and one or two fleecy cloud effects.  It hardly seemed as though they could be really photographs.

“I’ve never done anything like these!” she said regretfully.  “I wish I could—­there are some beautiful views about here that would make charming pictures.”