“Well, Princess Poppycheek,—­Princess Pink Poppycheek,—­I had to surrender,” Cameron said, as they floated around the room.  “After your cruel aspersion on my dancing, I was so enraged I vowed to myself I’d never speak to you again.  But I’m awful magnanimous, and I forgive you freely, from the bottom of my heart.”

“I haven’t asked to be forgiven,” and Patty shot him a saucy glance; “but,” she added, shyly, “I’m truly glad you do forgive me.  I was a pig!”

“So you were.  A Poppycheeked piggy-wig!  But with me, what is forgiven is forgotten.  And, by the way, you dance fairly well.”

“So I’ve been told,” returned Patty, demurely.  “And I find I can get along with you.”

This sounded like faint praise, but each knew that the other appreciated how well their steps suited each other and how skilful they both were.

Van Reypen and Ken Harper stood where Patty had left them, for a moment, as they watched their hoped-for partner dance away.

“There’s no use getting mad at that child,” said Ken, patiently; “she will do as she likes.”

“Well, after all, why shouldn’t she?  She’s a reigning belle, and she’s a law unto herself.  But she has a lot of sense inside that golden curly head.”

“Yes,” returned Kenneth, “and not only sense, but a sound, sweet nature.  Patty is growing up a coquette, but it is only because she is beset by flattery; and, too, she is full of mischief.  She can’t help teasing her suitors, as she calls them.”

“She can tease me all she likes,” said Van Reypen, somewhat seriously, and Kenneth answered simply, “Me, too.”

Next morning, Patty told Nan all about Mr. Cameron, and that gay little lady was greatly interested in the story.

“I knew he would be nice,” said Nan, “from what you had already told me about him.  Is he good-looking, Patty?”

“Yes,—­no,—­I don’t know,” returned Patty; “I don’t believe I thought about it.  He has an awfully nice face, and he’s tall and big, and yet he’s young-looking.  At least, his eyes are.  He has dark eyes, and they’re just brimming over with mischief and fun, except when he’s playing his violin.”

“Then I suppose he has the regulation ‘far away’ look,” commented Nan.

“Well, he doesn’t look like a dying goat, if that’s what you mean! but he looks like a real musician, and he is one.”

“And a woman-hater, I believe?”

“Oh, it’s rubbish to call him that!  He’s not crazy over girls, but it’s because he thinks most of them are silly.  He likes his two cousins,—­and, Nan, don’t breathe it, but I have a faint inkling of a suspicion of a premonition that he’s going to like me!”

“Patty, you’re a conceited little goose!”

“Nay, nay, my ducky stepmother, but I’d be a poor stick if I couldn’t fascinate that youth after our romantic introduction.”

“That’s so; and I think you’ll not have much trouble bringing him to your feet.”