PATTY AND PETER
It was the day before the Fairfields were to leave Rome.
Patty and Peter Homer sat on one of the upper flights of the Spanish
Steps, waiting for Flo and Snippy, who were in a neighbouring shop.
The beginning of the sunset hour cast a warm, happy light, and Patty,
who was very sensitive to the peculiar charms of this most delightful
part of Rome, was gazing at the beautiful staircase that seemed to
ripple down from the Church of Trinita dei Monti to the fountain below.
Peter had called her attention before to the construction of these
steps, and she had learned to love the wonderful effect as they
separated and joined again, like a cascading river.
“Why is it that steps are so beautiful?” she said to Peter, who was
also enjoying the view.
“Not exactly because they are steps,” he replied. “A flight of stairs
is not necessarily beautiful. But when designed by a master mind, with
knowledge of architectural effect and symmetry, they can be made to
express a great deal. But don’t try too hard to understand, just look
at it all, and wonder.”
“I do. And I shall always remember this, my last afternoon in Rome,
sitting here in the sunset----”
“With me,” interrupted Peter.
“Yes, with you. I have to thank you for much of my pleasure in Rome.
Without what you have told me and taught me, I should not have known
anything about the real Rominess of Rome.”
“You don’t know much about it yet, nor do I. But we’ve seen a little of
it together, and I, too, shall always remember our good times here.”
“Very frivolous times. What a lot of fun we’ve had with our foolish
picnics and games.”
“Yes; but you know Italy of itself is not a humorous country. Whatever
fun one gets out of it, one must take to it.”
“I wonder you’re so fond of fun,” said Patty, musingly, “when you’re so
sentimental.”
“What! I? Sentimental? Never! I’m the most practical man in the world.”
“Oh, yes, you’re practical enough, but you’re sentimental, too.”
“And aren’t you?”
“I don’t know. No, I don’t think I am.”
“I don’t think you are, exactly, either. But I think you will be some
day. And as a beginning, couldn’t you cultivate a little sentiment
toward me?”
Patty looked around her,--at the gold and violet sunset sky above
them, the sparkling fountain plashing below them, the soft twilight
atmosphere about them, and the Roman monuments both near and far,--and
answered:
“If I ever could be sentimental, it would be here and now.”
“Nonsense!” cried Peter. “I don’t want you to be sentimental! Save that
for Venice. Child, don’t you know the difference between sentiment and
sentimentality?”
“No,” said Patty, in surprise, “is there any?”
“You’re hopeless! Doesn’t this exquisite moment, here and now, inspire
you with impulses of noble sentiment quite removed from mawkish
sentimentality?”
“I don’t know,” said honest Patty. “What sentiment ought I to feel?”
“Oh, I don’t want to suggest. Look in your own heart, and tell me if
there’s no pleasant thought there, for this especial moment,--and for
me?”
Patty shut her eyes tight, and pondered.
“Yes,” she said, triumphantly, “I know what you mean. I looked in my
heart, and it’s overflowing with a sentiment of gratitude for your
kindness to me.”
For once Patty saw Peter Homer look positively angry.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he exclaimed; “or, rather, I
ought to. I should know better than to expect a child like you to have
any real feelings.”
“I’m not a child!” said Patty, offended in her turn. “I’m over
eighteen, and I’ve lots of real feeling, but as you don’t seem to care
for it, I won’t waste it on you!”
Peter laughed at the indignant look on Patty’s pretty face, and
said, gaily: “You’ve plenty of time, little one. Your sentiments are
sprouting, and they’ll grow rapidly enough, once they’re started. Thank
Heaven, your sense of humour will keep them from growing too rank. Now,
soothe my wounded feelings by telling me you’ve a nice kind sentiment
of friendship sprouting in your heart for me.”
“Sprouting! Why, my friendship for you sprouted long ago. Now, it’s
grown to a big tree, and on every leaf is written a kindly thought of
you.”
“Ah, you _have_ imagination; and that’s closely akin to sentiment. Dear
little Patty, I wish I could teach you to see life as I’ve taught you
to see Rome.”
Patty looked up quickly, surprised at the note of earnestness in his
voice, and found Peter’s dark eyes looking steadily into her own.
“I wish you could,” she said, simply, as her own clear blue eyes
frankly returned his gaze.
“Being desirous of making the acquaintance of the pretty girl on the
steps, the wayfarer sat down beside her,” declaimed the ridiculous
voice of Floyd Austin, as he appeared before them, and dropped down on
the step beside Patty.
“Why, Floyd,” she cried, “I didn’t see you coming. Where have you been?”
“Seeing Rome, and hoping I’d see you, which, by good luck I did. What
are you two babes in the wood doing here all alone?”
“Waiting for Flo and Snippy. They’re in that shop over there, buying
photographs.”
“Um,--yes. Don’t you care for photographs?”
“I’ve bought all I can carry, already. I shall have to use them for
wall paper, when I get home. It would take a Maine forest to frame them
all.”
“I saw a room papered with photographs once,” said Peter. “They were
divided by narrow mouldings, you know, but the pictures were pasted
right on the walls.”
“Wasn’t it horrid?” asked Patty.
“Awful. Photographs in great quantities are awful, anyhow. But, while
we’re on the subject, won’t you give me one of yourself? To hang on my
memory chain, you know.”
“I’d ask for one too,” put in Floyd, “but I’ve seven of you already,
Patty. Snapshots, but good ones.”
“I don’t see why he should have seven, and I none,” said Peter, in a
plaintive voice.
“I’ll give you one,” said Floyd, generously.
“No, thank you,--I don’t want it. But what I do want, Patty, is to take
a snapshot of you, right now, here on the Spanish Steps.”
“You’ve no camera,” said Patty.
“I can get one in a minute, in that photograph shop. They keep all
sorts, and I’ll just borrow one long enough to take you. May I?”
“Yes, if the light’s good enough. I don’t care,” said Patty,
indifferently.
Peter looked at her curiously, and then went off for the camera.
“Having achieved his heart’s desire, the young man tripped gaily away,”
said Floyd, mischievously smiling at Patty.
“Here comes Flo,” cried Patty, as Snippy and her charge appeared, laden
with long pasteboard rolls. “Now we can all be in the picture.”
“So we can!” said Floyd. “Homer will be _so_ pleased!”
Mr. Homer returned with his camera to find a group ready posed for him.
Floyd had arranged them, and Snippy sat on one step, with her arms
outspread in a classic attitude, while the two girls stood demurely
with clasped hands on either side, a step below. Floyd, above and
behind, held out one hand with beneficent gesture, and in the other was
a long pasteboard roll, which he used as a trumpet.
“It’s an allegorical group,” he announced, “of ‘Fame blessing a bunch
of Tourists.’”
Entering into the spirit of the thing, Peter focussed his camera,
and secured what afterward turned out to be a delightfully ludicrous
picture.
“Now,” said Peter, in the tone he used when he had no intention of
being contradicted, “I will take a picture of Patty alone.”
“All right,” said Flo, not caring, and she turned away to talk to Floyd
Austin.
“Lean lightly against the balustrade,” said Peter, as Patty stood
carelessly on the steps. She fell into the position he had suggested,
and against the background of innumerable steps, above, below, and on
either side, the girlish figure stood out in fair relief. The white
serge frock, with its graceful long coat opening over a soft white
blouse, was a becoming style to Patty, and suited well the scheme of
the picture. Her soft, white, felt hat, turned back from her ripply,
gold hair, and a filmy white Liberty scarf trailed from it, and
fluttered over her shoulder. She was the embodiment of quiet, graceful,
American girlhood, and the picturesque Roman surroundings accented her
charm.
Peter Homer held his breath as he adjusted the camera.
“Don’t move,” he begged; “it’s perfect.”
“I’ve no intention of moving,” said Patty, calmly; “take your time.”
It was one of the girl’s best traits that she was never self-conscious;
and so she was never embarrassed at posing for a picture. In fact, she
rather enjoyed it, as she was fond of photographs of all sorts.
“All over,” announced Peter Homer, as he snapped the camera for the
last time. “Now, if you people will wait till I take this machine back
to its home, I’ll invite you all to tea right here and now.”
“Goody!” cried Patty; “I’m starving, and they have the loveliest cakes
in this tearoom of all Rome.”
Snippy was graciously pleased to accept the invitation, and soon they
were gathered round a tea table, and Patty had all the cakes she
desired.
“When can we see the pictures?” asked Flo.
“As soon as I can get them developed. You may each have copies of
that stunning classic group you posed in, but the landscape of Miss
Fairfield is all for my little own self.”
“Can’t I have one?” asked Patty.
“No, madame. They are not for general circulation.”
“Pooh!” said Patty, “I don’t want a picture of myself, anyway. I’d
rather have one of you.”
“I’ll send you one,” said Peter, quietly.
“Not being members of the picture exchange, the other guests turned
their attention to tea and muffins,” said Floyd, in a resigned way, as
he appropriated more muffins, and begged Snippy to pour him another cup
of tea.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” said Flo, “that we’ve been here over a
month; does it, Patty?”
“No, indeed, seems more like a week. Oh, I know I shan’t like Florence
as well as Rome, and then, too, all you boys won’t be there. I do love
boys,” said Patty, contemplatively, as she broke a bit of frosting off
her cake and gazed at the two young men before her.
“Thank you, old lady,” said Floyd. “And do you class this stalwart
gentleman and myself among your beloved ‘boys’?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose you _are_ too old to be called boys; but
anyway, you’re the ones I meant. You and Lank and Caddy. Why, I’m so
used to having you all bothering around, I’ll be awfully lonesome in
Florence, I know I shall.”
“You’ll have me,” said Flo. “I’m nice.”
“Yes, you are. And perhaps we’ll have more fun without the boys. ‘They
do tease so,’ as _Alice_ said about the elephants.”
Patty’s roguish smile contradicted her speech, and both men knew it.
“Don’t be so sure you won’t see us in Florence,” said Floyd. “My ticket
is most accommodating; isn’t yours, Homer?”
“No,” said Peter, shortly. “At least it doesn’t include Florence among
its coupons.”
“I’m sorry,” said Patty, gently. “I’d be glad to see you there. Are you
really coming, Floyd?”
“I don’t know yet. How long shall you be there?”
“About a fortnight, I think. Perhaps longer. It depends on how father
and Nan like it.”
“And you?”
“Yes, and I. But I’m so good-natured I always agree with them.”
“That’s a good one!” said Floyd, “when it’s well known that you’re the
dictator of the Fairfield Forum.”
“Only when I care,” said Patty, “and I don’t often care.”
“Well, I care that you’re going away,” said Floyd, “and I shall follow
you, if possible, as soon as I can.”