When Warrington had gone, John turned to his sister.

“Isn’t he the finest chap?”

“He isn’t to be compared with you,” Patty answered.

“Nobody is,” said Miss Challoner.

John colored with pleasure.

“Mr. Warrington is a thorough gentleman, and I like him very much,” said Mrs. Bennington.  “I have heard things about him; I can see that there has been some exaggeration.  I shall be very glad to have him for a neighbor.”

“A neighbor?” said Miss Challoner.

“Yes.  He is coming back to Herculaneum to live.”

“That is news to me.”  The actress stirred her coffee and smiled at Patty.  “I understand you’ve been riding together.  He is really a splendid horseman.”

“He has the dearest old dog,” replied Patty.

The day passed quickly for all concerned:  the dinner and box-party left nothing to be desired.

The wedding-breakfast would have provoked envy in the heart of Lucullus; for Warrington was a man of the world, thoroughly polished; there was nothing Stoic about him (though, in the early days he had been a disciple of this cult perforce); he was a thoroughgoing epicure.

Patty was delighted.  Warrington guided her about the rooms on a tour of inspection.  He pointed out all the curios and told the history of each.  But the desk was the article which interested her most.

“And this is where you write?  Upon this desk plays have grown up?  Won’t you give me a single sheet of manuscript to take home with me?”

“I certainly shall.”

He pulled out a drawer and found some old manuscript.  He selected a sheet, signed it, and gave it to her.

“I am rich!” the girl exclaimed.  “Signed manuscript from a real live author!  I suppose that you receive tons of letters, some praising, some arguing, some from mere autograph fiends.”

“It’s a part of the day’s work.”  His face brightened.  He searched his pockets.  “Here is one out of the ordinary.  It is unsigned, so I feel no qualms of conscience in letting you read it.”

Patty took the envelope with suppressed eagerness.  She drew out the letter and read it slowly.

“Do you receive many like that?” she asked, folding the letter and returning it.

“Very few; that’s why I treasure it.  I should like to meet the writer; but that’s impossible.  I have read and re-read it fifty times.”

“Evidently it was written in good faith.”  Patty was not very enthusiastic.

“There’s not the least doubt of that.  I am glad of one thing:  I can’t disillusion her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, this young woman thinks I must be a paragon of virtues.  I’m not; I’m a miserable impostor.  She takes it for granted that I am good and kind and wise.”

“Aren’t you?” asked Patty gravely.

“As men go.  I always try to be kind; sometimes I am good, and sometimes I am wise.”