"Thomas M. Wyatt," said Patty, grimly, "is my small brother Tommy, and
Robert is short for Bobby Shafto, which was the name of Tommy's bull
pup, the homeliest and worst-tempered dog that was ever received into
the bosom of a respectable family."
"But why in the world did he telegraph?"
"It's a joke," said Patty, shaking her head dejectedly. "Joking runs in
the family, and we've all inherited the tendency. One time my
father--but, as my friend Kipling says, that's another story. This dog,
you see--this Robert Shafto--has cast a shadow over my vacations for
more than a year. He killed my kitten, and ate my Venetian lace
collar--it didn't even give him indigestion. He went out and wallowed in
the rain and mud and came in and slept on my bed. He stole the beefsteak
for breakfast and the rubbers and door-mats for blocks around. Property
on the street appreciably declined, for prospective purchasers refused
to purchase so long as Tommy Wyatt kept a dog. Robert was threatened
with death time and again, but Tommy always managed to conceal him from
impending justice until the trouble had blown over. But this time I
suppose he committed some supreme enormity--probably chewed up the baby
or one of my father's Persian rugs, or something like that. And Tommy,
knowing how I detested the beast, evidently thought it would be a good
joke to telegraph, though wherein lies the point I can't make out."
"Ah, I see," said Georgie; "and Mrs. Richards thought that Robert was a
relation. What did she say?"
"She said, 'Come in, Patty dear,' when I knocked on the door. Usually
when I have had the honor of being received by her she has somewhat
frigidly called me 'Miss Wyatt.' I opened the door with my knees shaking
when I heard that 'Patty dear,' and she took my hand and said, 'I am
sorry to have to tell you that I have heard bad news from your brother.'
"'Tommy?' I gasped.
"'No; Robert.'
"I was dazed. I racked my brains, but I couldn't remember any brother
Robert.
"'He is very ill,' she went on. 'Yes, I must tell you the truth, Patty;
poor little Robert passed away this morning'; and she laid the telegram
before me. Then, when it flashed over me what it meant, I was so
relieved that I put my head down on her desk and simply laughed till I
cried; and she thought I was crying all the time, and kept patting my
head and quoting Psalms. Well, then I didn't dare to tell her, after she
had expended all that sympathy; so as soon as I could stop laughing
(which wasn't very soon, for I had got considerable momentum) I raised
my head and told her--trying to be truthful and at the same time not
hurt her feelings--that Robert was not a brother, but just a sort of
friend. And, do you know, she immediately jumped to the conclusion that
he was a fiancé, and began stroking my hair and murmuring that it was
sometimes harder to lose friends than relatives, but that I was still
young, and I must not let it blast my life, and that maybe in the future
when time had dulled the pain--and then, remembering that it wouldn't do
to advise me to adopt a second fiancé before I had buried my first, she
stopped suddenly and asked if I wished to go home to the funeral.
"I told her no, that I didn't think it would be best; and she said
perhaps not if it hadn't been announced, and she kissed me and told me
she was glad to see me bearing up so bravely."
"Patty!" Priscilla exclaimed in horror, "it's dreadful. How could you
let her think it?"
"How could I help it?" Patty demanded indignantly. "What with being
frightened into hysterics first, and then having a strange fiancé thrust
at me without a moment's notice, I think that I carried off the
situation with rare delicacy and finesse. Do you think it would have
been tactful to tell her it was nothing but a bull pup she was quoting
Scripture about?"
"I don't see how it was exactly your fault," Georgie acknowledged.
"Thank you," said Patty. "If you had a brother like Tommy Wyatt you
would know how to sympathize with me. I suppose I ought to be grateful
to know that the dog is dead, but I should like to have had the news
broken a little less gently."
"Patty," exclaimed Priscilla, as a sudden thought struck her, "do you
happen to remember that you are on the reception committee of the
Dramatic Club cotillion to-morrow night? What will Mrs. Richards think
when she sees you in evening dress, receiving at a party, on the very
day your fiancé has been buried?"
"I wonder?" said Patty, doubtfully. "Do you really think I ought to stay
away? After working like a little buzz-saw making tissue-paper favors
for the thing, I hate to have to miss it just because my brother's bull
pup, that I never even _liked_, is dead.
"I'll go," she added, brightening, "and receive the guests with a forced
and mechanical smile; and every time I feel the warden's eyes upon me I
shall with difficulty choke back the tears, and she will say to herself:
"'Brave girl! How nobly she is struggling to present a composed face to
the world! None would dream, to look at that seemingly radiant
creature, that, while she is outwardly so gay, she is in reality
concealing a great sorrow which is gnawing at her very vitals.'"