Next day she went in search of Laurence Cromer, and found that young man sketching in a corner of one of the picturesque terraces of “Red Chimneys.”

“Why these shyness?” asked Patty, as he quickly closed his sketch-book at her approach.  “Why these modest coquetry?  Art afraid of me?  Gentle little me?  Who wouldn’t hurt a ’squito?  Or am it that I be unworthy to look upon a masterpiece created by one of our risingest young artists?”

“I don’t want you to see this sketch till it’s finished,” said Cromer, honestly.  “It’s going to be an awfully pretty bit, but unfinished, it looks like the dickens.  Let me sketch you, Miss Fairfield, may I?”

“Yes, indeed; but can you talk at the same time?  I want your advice.”

“Oh, yes; the more I talk the better I work.  Turn a little more to the right, please.  Oh, that’s perfect!  Rest your fingertips on the balustrade, so—­now, don’t move!”

“Huh,” remarked Patty, as Cromer began to sketch in swiftly, “how long do I have to stand this way?  It isn’t such an awful lot of fun.”

“Oh, don’t move!  This is only a beginning, but I’ll make a wonderful picture from it.  That shining white linen frock is fine against the gleaming, sunlit marble of the terrace.”

“All right, I’ll stand,” said Patty, goodnaturedly.  “Now you can return the favour by helping me out of a quandary.  Won’t you advise me what part to take in the Pageant?  As a matter of fact, I think all the best parts are assigned, and I don’t want to be ’one of the populace,’ or just ‘a voice heard outside’!  I want a picturesque part.”

“I should say you did!  Or, rather the picturesque parts all want you.  Now, I’M designing the Niagara Float.  It’s unfinished, as yet,—­the scheme, I mean,—­but I know I want a figure for it, a sort of a,—­well, a Maid of the Mist, don’t you know.  A spirituelle girl, draped all in grey misty tulle, and dull silver wings,—­long, curving ones, and a star in her hair.”

“Lovely!” cried Patty.  “And do you think I could be it?”

“Well, I had a brown-haired girl in mind.  Your colouring is more like ‘Dawn’ or ‘Spring’ or ‘Sunshine.’”

“Oh, I hate my tow-head!” exclaimed Patty.  “I wish I was a nut-brown maid.”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Cromer, in a matter-of-fact way.  “You are the perfection of your own type.  I never saw such true Romney colouring.  Pardon me, Miss Fairfield, I’m really speaking of you quite impersonally.  Don’t be offended, will you?”

“No, indeed,” said Patty.  “I quite understand, Mr. Cromer.  But what part am I adapted for in the Pageant?”

“If you will, I’d like you to be Maid of the Mist.  As I say, I had thought of a darker type, but with a floating veil of misty grey, and grey, diaphanous draperies, you would be very effective.  Turn the least bit this way, please.”

Patty obeyed directions, while she thought over his idea.  “Maid of the Mist” sounded pretty, and the artist’s float was sure to be a beautiful one.