“No blonde can fascinate me!  My girl is a poppy-cheeked brunette, and I’m going to catch her before long.  Ah, do come to Marie’s party,—­won’t you?”

“I’ve never yet gone where I wasn’t invited, and I don’t propose to begin now.  But if you can get Marie to invite me, I’ll go.”

“Don’t be so cruel!  I can’t do more than I have in the matter.  I’ve teased Marie to death over this thing, and she can’t think who you can be, unless you’re a Miss Galbraith.  You’re not, are you?”

“Gracious, no!  I’m not Mona Galbraith!”

“I knew you weren’t; Marie says she can’t sing.  Oh, dear, you’re a perfect torment!  Pretty princess,—­pretty Princess Poppy-cheek, won’t you take pity on your humble slave and adorer, and tell me your name?”

“No; but I’ll tell you what I will do.  I’ll send you my photograph.”

“Oh, you heavenly angel!  You dear, beautiful princess!  When will you send it?  Don’t wait for the morning; call a messenger, and send it to-night!”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.  I’ll send it to-morrow morning,—­by messenger, if you like,—­and if you’ll promise not to ask the messenger who sent it.”

“I’ll promise that if you so ordain.  I guess I can play cricket!”

“All right then; now listen, yourself.  I shall send you three pictures.  You pick out the one you think I am, and take it to Marie, and if you are right, she’ll invite me.  She knows me well enough, but she can’t recognise me from your description.”

“I don’t think it’s fair for you to play that way; but I’m dead sure I can pick out your picture from the three.”

“All right then; good-night!” And Patty hung up the receiver with a snap.

Then she lay back in her big chair and indulged in a series of giggles.

“Sam Weller says,” she said, to herself, “that the great art of letter writing is to break off suddenly and make ’em wish they was more,—­and I expect that applies equally well to telephoning.”

And she was quite right, for the impatient young man at the other end of the wire was chagrined indeed when the connection was cut off.  He was too honourable to use any forbidden means of discovering Patty’s identity, and so would not ask to see any telephone records, and was quite willing to promise not to quiz a messenger boy.  And so, he could do nothing but wait impatiently for the promised photograph.

Meanwhile Miss Patricia Fairfield was looking over her portrait collection to see what ones to send.  She had a box full of old photographs, but she wanted to select just the right ones.

But at last she tumbled them all on the table in a heap, and wisely decided to leave the decision till morning.

And so it happened, that when Nan came to Patty’s room next morning, as she often did, she found that coquettish damsel, sitting up in bed, wrapped in a blue silk nightingale, and with a flower-decked lace cap somewhat askew on her tumbled curls.