“Oh, don’t take it too seriously.  Perhaps we can make her over to suit ourselves.  Did you expect her so early?”

“No; but she said she came early to avoid the midday heat.  It’s almost eleven.  Do finish dressing, Patty, and come down to see her.”

“Hasten me not, my child.  Aunt Adelaide will keep, and I’m not in rapid mood this morning.”

“Oh, bother; come on down as you are, then.  That negligee thing is all right.”

“No; Aunt Adelaide might think me a careless young person.  I shall get into a tidy frock, and appear before her properly.”

“Well, go on and do it, then.  I’ll wait for you.”  Mona sat down to wait, and Patty dropped into a chair before her dressing-table, and soon twisted up her curls into presentable shape.

“I declare, Patty,” Mona said, “the quicker you twist up that yellow mop of yours, the more it looks like a coiffure in a fashion paper.”

“And, as a rule, they look like the dickens.  But describe the visitor to me, Mona.”

“No; I’ll let you get an unbiased first impression.  Here’s Janet, now do get dressed.”

Except on occasions of haste, or elaborate toilette, Patty preferred to dress herself, but she submitted to Janet’s ministrations, and in a few minutes was hooked into a fresh morning dress of blue and white mull.

“On, Stanley, on!” she cried, catching Mona’s hand, and dancing out into the hall.  “Where is the Calamity?”

“Hush, she’ll hear you!  Her rooms are just over here.  She told me to bring you.”

As Patty afterward confided to Mona, she felt, when introduced to Mrs. Parsons, as if she were making the acquaintance of a ghost.

The little lady was so thin, so pale, and so generally ethereal looking, that it seemed as if a strong puff of wind would blow her away.

Her face was very white, her large eyes a pale blue, and her hair that ashen tint which comes when light hair turns grey.  The hand she languidly held out to Patty was transparent, and so thin and limp that it felt like a glove full of small bones.  Her voice was quite in keeping with her general air of fragility.  It was high, thin and piping, and she spoke as if every word were a tax on her strength.

“How do you do, my dear?” she said, with a wan little smile at Patty.  “How pretty you are!  I used to be pretty, too; at least, so they told me.”  She gave a trilling little laugh, and Patty said, heartily, “I’m sure they were right; I approve their opinion.”

This pleased Mrs. Parsons mightily, and she leaned back among her chair cushions with a satisfied air.

Patty felt a distinct liking for the little lady, but she wondered how she expected to perform a chaperon’s duties for two vigorous, healthy young girls, much inclined to gaieties.

“I am not ill,” Mrs. Parsons said, almost, it seemed, in answer to Patty’s unspoken thought.  “I am not very strong, and I can’t stand hot weather.  But I am really well,—­though of a delicate constitution.”