“Oh, don’t cross bridges before you come to them.  Probably he’ll never look at little me, and if he should, I’ll be too busy to see him.  There are others, you know.”

Reassured by Patty’s indifference, Daisy vowed her everlasting friendship and adoration, and the two went downstairs arm in arm.

The veranda presented a gay scene—­afternoon tea was in progress, and as some of the Spring Beach young people had dropped in, there were several groups at small tables, or sitting on the veranda steps and railings.

“I’ve saved a lovely seat for you,” said Laurence Cromer, advancing to Patty; “just to show you that I’m of a forgiving nature.”

“Why, what have I done to be forgiven for?” asked Patty, opening her blue eyes wide in surprise.

“You’ve spoiled your good looks, for one thing.  You had a little head sunning over with curls, and now you have the effect of a nice little girl who has washed her face and hands and neatly brushed her hair.”

“But one can’t go around like Slovenly Peter,” said Patty, laughing, as she took the wicker chair he placed for her.

“Why not, if one is a Pretty Peter?”

“Oh, pshaw, I see you don’t know me very well.  I never talk to people who talk about me.”

“Good gracious, how can they help it?” “Well, you see, I’m accustomed to my girl and boy friends, whom I’ve known for years.  But here, somehow, everybody seems more grown up and societyfied.”

“How old are you?”

“It’s my impression that that’s a rude question, though I’m not sure.”

“It isn’t, because you’re not old enough to make it rude.  Come, how old?”

“Nineteen, please, sir.”

“Well, that’s quite old enough to drop boy and girl ways and behave as a grown-up.”

“But I don’t want to,” and Patty’s adorable pout proved her words.

“That doesn’t matter.  Your ‘reluctant feet’ have to move on whether they wish to or not.  Are you bashful?”

“Sorta,” and Patty put her finger in her mouth, with a shy simper.

“You’re anything but bashful!  You’re a coquette!”

“Oh, no!” and Patty opened her eyes wide in horror.  “Oh, kind sir, don’t say that!”

But Cromer paid no heed to her words; he was studying her face.  “I’m going to paint you,” he announced, “and I shall call it ‘Reluctant Feet.’  Your head, with its aureole of curls; your wide eyes, your baby chin—­”

“Oh, Roger!” cried Patty, as young Farrington came toward her.  “What do you think?  Mr. Cromer is going to paint a picture of my head and call it ‘Reluctant Feet’!  He says so.”

“Yes,” said Cromer, unconscious of any absurdity; “Miss Fairfield is a fine subject.”

“That’s better than being called an object,” said Roger, joining them, “and you did look an object, Patty, when I arrived!  Your wig was all awry,—­and—­”