Patty, however, rode nearly every day; so she was but slightly fatigued.  Nevertheless, she was conscious of not wanting to dress for the tea.  But there was a very good reason why she must attend the function (as applied by the society reporter); they would naturally discuss her brother’s coming marriage, but if she was present, the discussion would not rise above whispers.  She wanted to meet the old busybodies in the open; she wasn’t afraid.  As she dressed, she caught herself doing aimless things, such as approaching the window and watching the clouds, or thoughtfully studying her face in the mirror, or patting the rug impatiently, or sighing.  She shook herself vehemently, and went resolutely about the intricate business known as toilet.

“I simply can’t believe it.  I know he isn’t that kind of man.  This can’t be such a wicked world.  But if she dares to make John unhappy, I shall hate her.  Why must we hear these things that make us doubt and ponder and hesitate?”

At the tea the ladies greeted her sympathetically.  Sympathy!  Hypocrites!  Heads came together; she could see them from the corner of her eyes.  She saw Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, like a vast ship of the line, manoeuvering toward her.  There were several escapes, but Patty stood her ground.

“You are looking charming, my dear,” said Mrs. Haldene.

“Thank you.”

“You go to the wedding, of course.”

“Yes; mother and I leave to-night for New York.  I am so excited over it.  To think of John’s being married to a celebrity!”

Patty was excited, but this excitement did not find its origin in anything exultant.  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene to mind her own business.  There was something primitive in Patty.  Her second thoughts were due to cultivation, and not from any inherent caution.

Mrs. Haldene smiled and went on.  It was a wonderful smile; it never changed; it served for all emotions, anger, hate, love, envy and malice.  Mrs. Haldene never flew into passions or ecstasies.  She was indeed preserved; and from the puckering taste she left in her wake, it might be suspected that she was pickled.

Before Patty arrived, two things had been fully discussed:  the Bennington wedding and the report that Warrington was coming home to live.  Shrugs, knowing glances, hypocritical resignation.  Too bad, too bad!  Warrington was coming home to live; young Mrs. Bennington would live across the street.  When two and two make four, what more need be said?

But Patty had her friends, and they stood by her loyally.

New York.  Clamor, clamor; noise, noise; the calling of cabmen, the clanging of street-cars, the rumbling of the elevated, the roaring of the drays, the rattling of the carts; shouting, pushing, hurrying, rushing, digging, streaming, pell-mell; the smell of coal-gas, of food cooking, of good and bad tobacco, of wet pavements, of plaster; riches and poverty jostling; romance and reality at war; monoliths of stone and iron; shops, shops; signs, signs; hotels; the tower of Babel; all the nations of the world shouldering one another; Jews and Gentiles, Christians and Turks; jumble, jumble.  This is New York.  There is nothing American about it; there is nothing English, French, German, Latin or Oriental about it.  It is cosmopolitan; that is to say, it represents everything and nothing.