“I like it so,” said Patty, smiling.

“Of course you do.  You’re fussy yourself.”

“I am not!  I’m not fussy!”

“Oh, I don’t mean that the way you think I do.  I mean you’re all dressed fussy, with pink ribbons and lace tassels and furbelows.”

“Yes; I do love frilly clothes.  Now, I suppose your ideal girl wears plain tailor-made suits, and stiff white collars, and small hats without much trimming,—­just a band and a quill.”

“Say, that’s where you’re ’way off!  I like to see girls all dollied up in squffly lace over-skirts,—­or whatever you call ’em,—­with dinky little bows here and there.”

“Is this frock all right, then?” asked Patty, demurely, knowing that her summer afternoon costume was of the very type he had tried to describe.

“Just the ticket!  I’m not much on millinery, but you look like an apple blossom trimmed with sunshine.”

“Why, you’re a poet!  Only poets talk like that.  I doubt if Mr. Cromer could say anything prettier.”

“’Tisn’t pretty enough for you.  Only a chap like Austin Dobson could make poetry about you.”

The earnest sincerity in the big blue eyes of the Westerner robbed the words of any semblance of impertinence, and Patty spoke out her surprise.

“Why, do you read Austin Dobson?  I never thought—­”

She paused, lest she hurt his feelings by her implication, but Farnsworth went on, quietly: 

“You never thought a big, hulking fellow like me could appreciate anything exquisite and dainty, either in poetry or in people,” he said.  “I don’t blame you, Miss Fairfield; I am uncouth, uncultured, and unmannered.  But I am fond of books, and, perhaps by the law of contrast, I am especially fond of the Minor Poets.”

“You shan’t call yourself those horrid names,” said Patty, for his tones rang true, and she began to appreciate his honest nature; “no one can be uncouth or uncultured who loves such reading.  Don’t you love the big poets, too?”

“Yes; but I suppose everybody does that.  I say, won’t you come outside for a bit?  That room is stuffy, and the air out here now is great.  Couldn’t you skip down with me for a whiff of the sea?”

“Why, I ought to be dressing for dinner.”

“Oh, there’s lots of time yet.  Come on.  Don’t tell anybody, just fly out at this window, like Peter Pan, and we’ll elope for half an hour.”

Acting impulsively, Patty swung herself through the low window, and had descended the picturesque outside stairway that led from the upper veranda to the lower one before she remembered Daisy’s prohibition.

“Oh, I think I won’t go down to the beach,” she said, suddenly pausing at the foot of the stairs.  “I must go right back.”

“Nothing of the sort,” and Farnsworth grasped her arm and fairly marched her along the path to the gate.  “You’re not a quitter, I know, so what silly notion popped into your head just then?”