So far as the girls could see, not one of the guests had suspected that Mrs. Hastings was other than an aunt of Mona’s, nor had they given her a second thought.  To their minds a chaperon was a necessary piece of furniture, but of only a momentary interest.  She must be greeted, and later, she must be bidden farewell, but no conversation with her between times was necessary.

The party was a pretty one.  Usually, the Spring Beach people didn’t care much to go to “Red Chimneys,” for Mona was not a favourite.  But Patty was, and, invited to meet her, every one accepted.  And the large rooms, cooled by electric fans, and decorated with lovely flowers and softly shaded lights, looked somehow more attractive, now that Patty Fairfield’s graceful figure was flitting through them.

After one of the dances, Patty drifted across the room and stood near Susan.  That worthy was dutifully looking over her book, and occasionally glancing thoughtfully round the room.

“Keep it up, Susan!” whispered Patty.  “You’re a howling success!  Everything’s all right.”

“Come for a stroll on the veranda, Patty,” said Jack Pennington, coming up to her.  “Mayn’t I take her, Mrs. Hastings, if I’ll be very careful of her?”

“Shure an’ ye may, sir,” said Susan, heartily, caught off her guard by this sudden request.

Jack Pennington stared at her, and Susan’s eyes fell and her face turned red in deepest dismay lest she had disgraced her beloved Miss Patty.  In a despairing effort to remedy her indiscretion she assumed a haughty tone and said, “You have my permission.  Go with the young gentleman, Miss Patty.”  And with an air of having accomplished her duty successfully, Susan picked up her knitting.

Patty’s twitching lips and flushed cheeks made quick-witted Jack Pennington suspect a joke somewhere, but he gravely offered his arm, and as they reached the broad veranda and walked toward a moonlighted corner of it, he said, “Interesting lady, that new aunt of Mona’s, isn’t she?”

“Very,” said Patty, trying not to laugh.

“I always like that foreign accent,” went on Jack; “is it,—­er—­ French?”

“Well, no,” opined Patty.  “I don’t think Mrs. Hastings is French.”

“Ah, German, then, perhaps.  I’ve heard that particular accent before, but I can’t just place it.”

“I think it’s sort of,—­of Scotch, don’t you?”

“Faith, an’ I don’t, thin!  I’m afther thinkin’ she’s a daughter av ould Ireland, arrah.”

Jack’s imitation of Susan’s brogue was so funny that Patty laughed outright.

“Perhaps the lady is Irish,” she said; “but she looks charming, and so well-dressed.”

“That’s so.  She is much better dressed than when I saw her last.”

“Saw her last!  What do you mean?”

“Well, of course I may be mistaken, but do you know, she looks like a—­like a lady I saw once in the kitchen garden at ’The Pebbles.’”