"If I had been the one to invent etiquette," said Patty, "I should have
made party calls payable one year after date, and then should have
allowed three days' grace at the end."
"In which case," said Priscilla, "I suppose you would get out of calling
on Mrs. Millard altogether."
"Exactly," said Patty.
Mrs. Millard--more familiarly referred to as Mrs. Prexy--annually
invited the seniors to dinner in parties of ten. Patty, whose turn had
come a short time before, owing to an untoward misfortune, had been in
the infirmary at the time; but, though she had missed the fun, she now
found it necessary to pay the call.
"Of course," she resumed, "I can see why you should be expected to call
if you attend the function and partake of the food; but what I _can't_
understand is why a peaceable citizen who desires only to gang his ain
gait should, upon the reception of an entirely unsolicited invitation,
suddenly find it incumbent upon him to put on his best dress and his
best hat and gloves in order to call upon people he barely knows."
"Your genders," said Priscilla, "are a trifle mixed."
"That," said Patty, "is the fault of the language. The logic, I think,
you will find correct. You can see what would happen," she pursued, "if
you carry it out to its logical conclusion. Suppose, for instance, that
every woman I have ever met in this town should suddenly take it into
her head to invite me to a dinner. Here I--perfectly unsuspicious and
innocent of any evil, because of a purely arbitrary law which I did not
help to make--would not only have to sit down and write a hundred
regrets, but would have to pay a hundred calls within the next two
weeks. It makes me shudder to think of it!"
"I don't believe you need worry about it, Patty; of course we know
you're popular, but you're not as popular as that."
"No," said Patty; "I didn't mean that I thought I really _should_ get
that many invitations. It's only that one is open to the constant
danger."
During the progress of this conversation Georgie Merriles had been
lounging on the couch by the window, reading the "Merchant of Venice" in
a critically unimpassioned way that the instructor in Dramatic Theory
could not have praised too much. The room finally having become too dark
for reading, she threw down the book with something like a yawn. "It
would have been a joke on Portia," she remarked, "if Bassanio had chosen
the wrong casket"; and she turned her attention to the campus outside.
Groups of girls were coming along the path from the lake, and the sound
of their voices, mingled with laughter and the jingling of skates,
floated up through the gathering dusk. Across the stretches of snow and
bare trees lights were beginning to twinkle in the other dormitories,
while nearer at hand, and more clearly visible, rose the irregular
outline of the president's house.
"Patty," said Georgie, with her nose against the pane, "if you really
want to get that call out of the way, now's your chance. Mrs. Millard
has just gone out."
Patty dashed into her bedroom and began jerking out bureau drawers.
"Priscilla," she called in an agonized tone, "do you remember where I
keep my cards?"
"It's ten minutes of six, Patty; you can't go now."
"Yes, I can. It doesn't matter what time it is, so long as she's out.
I'll go just as I am."
"Not in a golf-cape!"
Patty hesitated an instant. "Well," she admitted, "I suppose the butler
might tell her. I'll put on a hat"--this with the air of one who is
making a really great concession. Some more banging of bureau drawers,
and she appeared in a black velvet hat trimmed with lace, with the brown
jacket of her suit over her red blouse, and a blue golf-skirt and very
muddy boots showing below.
"Patty, you're a disgrace to the room!" cried Priscilla. "Do you mean to
tell me that you are going to Mrs. Millard's in a short skirt and those
awful skating-shoes?"
"The butler won't look at my feet; I'm so beautiful above"; and Patty
banged the door behind her.
Georgie and Priscilla flattened themselves against the window to watch
the progress of the call.
"Look," gasped Priscilla. "There's Mrs. Millard going in at the back
door."
"And there's Patty. My, but she looks funny!"
"Call her back," cried Priscilla, wildly trying to open the window.
"Let her alone," laughed Georgie; "it will be such fun to gloat over
her."
The window came up with a jerk. "Patty! Patty!" shrieked Priscilla.
Patty turned and waved her hand airily. "Can't stop now--will be back in
a moment"; and she sped on around the corner.
The two stood watching the house for several minutes, vaguely expecting
an explosion of some sort to occur. But nothing happened. Patty was
swallowed as if by the grave, and the house gave no sign. They
accordingly shrugged their shoulders and dressed for dinner with the
philosophy which a life fraught with alarms and surprises gives.
* * * * *
DINNER was half over, and the table had finished discussing Patty's
demise, when that young lady trailed placidly in, smiled on the
expectant faces, and inquired what kind of soup they had had.
"Bean soup; it wasn't any good," said Georgie, impatiently. "What
happened? Did you have a nice call?"
"No, Maggie, I don't care for any soup to-night. Just bring me some
steak, please."
"Patty!" in a pleading chorus, "what happened?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Patty, sweetly. "Yes, thank you, I had a
very pleasant call. May I trouble you for the bread, Lucille?"
"Patty, I think you're obnoxious," said Georgie. "Tell us what
happened."
"Well," began Patty, in a leisurely manner, "I said to the butler, 'Is
Mrs. Millard in?' and he said to me (without even a smile), 'I am not
sure, miss; will you please step into the drawing-room and I'll see.' I
was going to tell him that he needn't bother, as I knew she was out; but
I thought that perhaps it would look a little better if I waited and let
him find out for himself. So I walked in and sat down in a
pink-and-white embroidered _Louis-Quatorze_ chair. There was a big
mirror in front of me, and I had plenty of time to study the effect,
which, I will acknowledge, was a trifle mixed."
"A trifle," Georgie assented.
"I was beginning," pursued Patty, "to feel nervous for fear some of the
family might drop in, when the man came back and said, 'Mrs. Millard
will be down in a minute.'
"If I had seen you at that moment, Georgie Merriles, there would have
been battle, murder, and sudden death. My first thought was of flight;
but the man was guarding the door, and Mrs. Prexy had my card. While I
was frenziedly trying to think of a valid excuse for my costume the lady
came in, and I rose and greeted her graciously, one might almost say
gushingly. I talked very fast and tried to hypnotize her, so that she
would keep her eyes on my face; but it was no use: I saw them traveling
downward, and pretty soon I knew by the amused expression that they had
arrived at my shoes.
"Concealment was no longer possible," pursued Patty, warming to her
subject. "I threw myself upon her mercy and confessed the whole damning
truth. What kind of ice-cream is that?" she demanded, leaning forward
and gazing anxiously after a passing maid. "_Don't_ tell me they're
giving us raspberry again!"
"No; it's vanilla. Go on, Patty."
"Well, where was I?"
"You'd just told her the truth."
"Oh, yes. She said she'd always wanted to meet the college girls
informally and know them just as they are, and she was very glad of this
opportunity. And there I sat, looking like a kaleidoscope and feeling
like a fool, and she taking it for granted that I was being perfectly
natural. Complimentary, wasn't it? At this point dinner was announced,
and she invited me to stay--quite insisted, in fact, to make up, she
said, for the one I had missed when I was ill in the infirmary." Patty
looked around the table with a reminiscent smile.
"What did you say? Did you refuse?" asked Lucille.
"No; I accepted, and am over there at present, eating _pâté de foie
gras_."
"No, really, Patty; what did you say?"
"Well," said Patty, "I told her that this was ice-cream night at the
college, and that I sort of hated to miss it; but that to-morrow would
be mutton night, which I didn't mind missing in the least; so if she
would just as leave transfer her invitation, I would accept for
to-morrow with pleasure."
"Patty," exclaimed Lucille, in a horrified tone, "you didn't say that!"
"Just a little local color, Lucille," laughed Priscilla.
"But," objected Lucille, "we'd promised not to play local color any
more."
"Have you not learned," said Priscilla, "that Patty can no more live
without local color than she can live without food? It's ingrained in
her nature."
"Never mind," said Patty, good-naturedly; "you may not believe me now,
but to-morrow night, when I'm all dressed up in beautiful clothes,
swapping stories with Prexy and eating lobster salad, while you are over
here having mutton, _then_ maybe you'll be sorry."