“You’re a rogue, Patty,” he declared.  “If you don’t look out you’ll grow up a flirt.”

“Am I flirting with you?” and Patty opened her eyes very wide in mock horror at such an idea.

“No,—­not exactly.  But you may, if you like.”

“I don’t like!” said Patty, decidedly.  “We’re good chums, Jack, and I want to stay so.  No flirt nonsense about us, is there?”

“No,” said Jack; “let’s dance,” and away they whirled in a gay two-step.

When the dancing was over, the “Red Chimneys” party started for home in various motors.  Patty thought Bill would ask her to ride with him, but he didn’t come near her, and she wondered if he were annoyed or offended in any way.

She confessed to feeling a little tired, and rode quietly beside Aunt Adelaide, leaning her sunny head on that lady’s shoulder.

“But it was lovely!” she said, with a sort of purr like a contented kitten.  “I’d like to have a Pageant every night!”

“Yes, you would!” exclaimed Roger, who sat in front of her in the big motor.  “You’d be dancing in a sanitarium next thing you knew.”

“Pooh!” retorted Patty.  “I’m not a decrepit old invalid yet, am I, Aunt Adelaide?”

“No, dearie; but you must take care of yourself.  I think a cold compress on your forehead to-night would do you good.”

“And a hot compress on my chin, and two lukewarm ones on my ears,” teased Patty, laughing at the solicitous tones of the older lady.  “No, sir-ee!  I’ll catch a nap or two, and tomorrow I’ll be as right as a—­as a—­what’s that thing that’s so awfully right?”

“A trivet,” said Mona.

“Yes, a trivet.  I’ve no idea what it is, but I’ll be one!”

There was a light supper set out in the dining-room at “Red Chimneys,” but no one wanted any, so good-nights were said almost immediately and the wearied revellers sought their rooms.

“No kimono parties to-night, girls,” said Patty, firmly.  “I’m going straight to bed.”

“All right,” agreed Mona and Daisy, “we’ll save our gossip till morning.”

But Patty didn’t go straight to bed.  She flashed on the lights in her rose-coloured boudoir, drew the curtains of the bay window, and then threw herself into a big easy-chair.  She was thinking of Mr. William Farnsworth.  She wished he hadn’t said what he had.  It worried her, somehow.  And when he said good-night just now, he had a look in his eyes that meant,—­well, perhaps it didn’t mean anything after all.  Perhaps he was only flirting,—­as Patty herself was.  But was she?  She had just asked herself this question, really seriously, when a rose came flying in at the window and fell at her feet.  She looked up quickly,—­she was sure she had drawn the curtains.  Yes, she had done so, but there was just a little space between them, where they didn’t quite join.

Well, it must have been a good marksman who could throw so accurately!  Westerners were accounted good marksmen,—­it might be—­