because you're a
social favourite, and you add lustre to their list."

"And they don't care for me, personally!"

"Now, don't flare up. Of course they like you, personally,--who
doesn't? But they make you think you're brainy and soulful and a
little old deep-thinker--and,--you're not, you know."

"Well! You _are_ complimentary! What am I, pray? An ignoramus?"

"Hardly that. You're the sweetest, loveliest girl God ever made, but
you're not a blue-stocking. You're not college bred, or even
well-read."

"Do you know you're a very horrid person? Do you know I wouldn't stand
such talk from many people?"

"I should hope not. Very few people know you well enough or love you
well enough to tell you these truths."

"I know somebody who loves me too much to talk to me like that."

"Van Reypen, of course. But, Patty, he doesn't approve of the Blaney
crowd, either, and you know it."

"That's because he doesn't understand them, and----"

"Wait a minute. Just what do you mean by understand them? They speak
English, I suppose."

"How dense you are! There is much beside language of _words_ to be
understood by kindred----"

"Don't you dare say souls!"

"I will,--I _do_ say _souls_! That's what has no meaning for you!"

"Go on, Posy Face! You're pretty stunning when you get really stirred
up!"

Farnsworth's face broke into a broad smile, and Patty was so amazed at
his sudden change of manner that it irritated her.

"Oh, I am, am I! Well, other people have thought so, too. To the
extent of putting it into poetry--real poetry!"

"Such as what?"

Farnsworth was so cynical of tone, that Patty broke her pledge of
secrecy to the small extent of quoting a few words from the poem Blaney
had given her.

"Such as this," she cried:

"----perhaps because her limpid face
Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein
The dimples found no place to anchor and
Abide."

"That is poetry, indeed!" agreed Farnsworth, looking at her
quizzically. "Did you say it was written to you?"

"Yes, Sam Blaney wrote it, to me. I didn't mean to tell you, it's a
confidential matter,--but you were so horrid about him----"

"Wait a minute, Patty. Is that an original poem, that Blaney wrote for
you alone?"

"Yes, it is. I promised not to tell it to anybody, so I'll ask you to
say nothing about it."

"Tell me more of it."

"No, I won't. I promised not to."

"You needn't. _I'll_ tell _you_ what comes next: