n the wide veranda.

"Too cool for you out here, Patty?" asked Elise.

"Not a bit of it. I love the outdoors. Somebody find me a sweater and
a rug, and I'll be as happy as a clam."

Roger brought a red silk sweater from the hall, and a big, soft steamer
rug, and proceeded to tuck Patty up, snugly.

"Yes," she said, turning to Blaney, and answering his inquiry, "I am
supposed to be organising a Children's Home, but all the hard work is
done for me, and I only say yes or no, to easy questions. You see, a
dear old friend of mine left me a sum of money for the purpose, and I
want to prove a trustworthy steward. But we're not going to do
anything definite until Spring, unless, as Red Chimneys is in the
market, it seems advisable to secure it while we can."

"Goodness, Patty," said Elise; "you talk like a Board of Managers!"

"That's what I am; or, rather, I'm Manager of the Board. Is Philip
coming tonight, Roger?"

"Yes, he'll be here for dinner. And Mona, too. I say, Blaney, we'll
bring 'em along to your party, eh?"

"Of course. Alla will be delighted to have them. No matter if we're
crowded. You see, Miss Fairfield, our place is small, but our welcome
is vurry, vurry large----" Blaney waved his long arms, as if including
the whole world in his capacious welcome.

"You're vurry, vurry kind," returned Patty, unconsciously imitating his
peculiar pronunciation. "I'm just crazy to see your studio. It seemed
as if the time would never come. And I want to meet your sister, too.
I know it will be a lovely party. I've never been to a real Bohemian
Studio party."

"Oh, we don't call it Bohemian, because, you see, it _is_ Bohemian.
Only make-believe Bohemians call themselves so. You'll learn to
distinguish the difference."

"I hope so. I've always wanted to know what Bohemianism really is."

"We'll show you tonight. What are you going to wear?"

"My goodness, I don't know. I hadn't thought about it. Also, I've
never been asked a question like that before."

"Ah, but it means so much! If your gown should be out of key----"
Blaney rolled up his eyes and spread his hands, as if the thought were
too appalling for words.

Patty giggled. "I hope it won't be," she said. "But, tell me, what is
the key? Maybe I can strike it."

"The key," and the poet looked thoughtful, "ah, yes, I have it! The
key will be saffron and ultramarine."

Patty gasped. "Oh, I haven't a frock to my name in those colours