She came, delightfully refreshed by toilet waters and crisp linen, to take a deep rocker opposite Paul, and leaned luxuriously back, showing very trim feet shod in white.

“Admit that you’ve fallen in love with Kirkwood, Mr. Forster,” said she.

“I can’t admit anything of the sort,” said Paul, firmly, but smiling because she was so very good to look at.  He had to admit that he had never seen handsomer dark eyes, nor a more tender, more expressive and characterful mouth than the one that smiled so readily and showed so even a line of big teeth.

“Oh, you will!” she assured him easily.  “There’s no place like Kirkwood, is there, Alan?” she said to her brother, as he came out.  He smiled.

“We don’t think there is, Forster.  My sister’s been crazy about the place since we got here—­that’s eighteen months ago; and I’m crazy about it myself now!”

“Wait until you’ve slept out on the porch for a while,” said Miss Chisholm, “and wait until you’ve got used to a plunge in the pool before breakfast every morning.  Alan, you must take him down to the pool to-morrow, and I’ll listen for his shrieks.  Where are you going now—­the power-house?  No, thank you, I won’t go.  I’m going out to find something special to cook you for your suppers.”

The something special was extremely delicious; Paul had a vague impression that there was fried chicken in it, and mushrooms, and cream, and sherry.  Miss Chisholm served it from a handsome little copper blazer, and also brewed them her own particular tea, in a Canton tea-pot.  Paul found it much pleasanter at this end of the table.  To his surprise, no one resented this marked favoritism—­Mrs. Tolley observing contentedly that her days of messing for men were over, and Mrs. Vorse remarking that she’d “orghter reely git out her chafing-dish and do some cooking” herself.

Paul found that Miss Chisholm possessed a leisurely gift of fun; she was droll, whether she quite meant to be or not.  Everybody laughed.  Mrs. Tolley became tearful with mirth.

“Now, this is the nicest part of the day,” said Patricia, when they three had carried their coffee out to the porch and were seated.  “Did you ever watch the twilight come, sitting here, Mr. Forster?”

“It seems to me I have never done anything else,” said Paul.  She gave him a keen glance over her lifted teaspoon; then she drank her coffee, set the cup down, and said: 

“Well!  How is that combination of vaudeville and railway station and zotrope that is known as New York?”

“Oh, the little old berg is all there,” said Paul, lightly.  But his heart gave a sick throb.  He hoped she would go on talking about it.  But it was some time before any one spoke, and then it was Alan Chisholm, who took his pipe out of his mouth to say: 

“Patricia hates New York.”

“I can’t imagine any one doing that,” Paul said emphatically.

“Well, there was a time when I thought I couldn’t live anywhere else,” said Alan, good-naturedly; “but there’s a lot of the pioneer in any fellow, if he gives it a chance.”