“No,” Herbert said promptly.  “I ought to be the one to ask Patty.”

“Why ought you?” Henry demanded.  “Why ought you?”

“Listen!” Patty cried, “I know the way we’ll do.  I’ll ask each of you a question—­we haf to whisper it—­and each one of you’ll ask me one, and then we’ll write it.  That’ll be simply grand!” She clapped her hands; then checked herself.  “Oh, I guess we can’t either.  We haven’t got any paper and pencils unless——­” Here she seemed to recall her hostess.  “Oh, Florrie, dear!  Run in the house and get us some paper and pencils.”

Florence gave no sign other than to increase the volume of her voice as she sang:  “Perf’ly sick’ning, clef’ for me, let me perf’ly sick-kin-ning!”

“We got plenty,” said Herbert; whereupon he and Henry produced pencils and their professional note-books, and supplied their fair friend and themselves with material for “Truth.”  “Come on, Patty, whisper me whatever you want to.”

“No; I ought to have her whisper me, first,” Henry Rooter objected.  “I’ll write the answer to any question; I don’t care what it’s about.”

“Well, it’s got to be the truth, you know,” Patty warned them.  “We all haf to write down just exackly the truth on our word of honour and sign our name.  Promise?”

They promised earnestly.

“All right,” said Patty.  “Now I’ll whisper Henry a question first, and then you can whisper yours to me first, Herbert.”

This seemed to fill all needs happily, and the whispering and writing began, and continued with a coziness little to the taste of the piously singing Florence.  She altered all previous opinions of her friend Patty, and when the latter finally closed the session on the steps, and announced that she must go home, the hostess declined to accompany her into the house to help her find where she had left her hat and wrap.

“I haven’t the least idea where I took ’em off!” Patty declared in the airiest manner.  “If you won’t come with me, Florrie, s’pose you just call in the front door and tell your mother to get ’em for me.”

“Oh, they’re somewhere in there,” Florence said coldly, not ceasing to swing her foot, and not turning her head.  “You can find ’em by yourself, I presume, or if you can’t I’ll have our maid throw ’em out in the yard or somep’n to-morrow.”

“Well, thank you!” Miss Fairchild rejoined, as she entered the house.

The two boys stood waiting, having in mind to go with Patty as far as her own gate.  “That’s a pretty way to speak to company!” Herbert addressed his cousin with heavily marked severity.  “Next time you do anything like that I’ll march straight in the house and inform your mother of the fact.”

Florence still swung her foot and looked dreamily away.  She sang, to the air of “Rock of Ages”: 

“Henry Rooter, Herbert, too—­they make me sick, they make me sick, that’s what they do.”