LITMIR.BIZ

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can sing a LITTLE bit! Oh, thank you!"

      "Now, I want to ask you something. You know my cousin, don't you?"

      "Have you sisters and cousins, whom you reckon up by dozens?"

      "It doesn't matter if I have. I mean my cousin, Marie Homer, to whom you telephoned, or tried to, on the fourteenth of February. But you got me, instead, and that means we're each other's valentine. See?"

      "No, I don't see at all. I only like pretty valentines."

      "Oh, I'm as pretty as a picture! That part is all right. Now, I've tried my best to find out who you are, from Marie. But either she can't or won't tell. But I've found out one thing, for certain. You're NOT Miss Farrington."

      "No, I'm not; but I never said I was."

      "I know you didn't, but you told me you were a pretty brunette, with poppy cheeks,—and Miss Farrington is that."

      "Did I tell you I was PRETTY? Oh, I'm SURE I didn't!"

      "You didn't have to. I know that myself. Now, if you'll keep still a minute, I'D like to speak."

      "If I can't talk, I may as well hang up this receiver, for I'm sure I don't want to sit here and listen to you."

      "Chatterbox! Now, listen; Marie is having a musicale next Friday night, and I want you to come."

      "Without an invitation!" Patty's voice sounded horrified.

      "Yes;" impatiently. "Marie would invite you fast enough if she knew who you were."

      "Perhaps she HAS invited me."

      "No, she hasn't; I saw her list. It's a small party, not more than twenty. And I asked her about each one, and not one of the ladies seemed to correspond to your description."

      "Who's going to sing?" asked Patty, calmly.

      "Only two ladies; a Miss Curtiss and a Miss Fairfield."

      "Perhaps I'm one of those."

      "No; I asked Marie, and she says Miss Fairfield is a pretty little blonde, and Miss Curtiss is a tall, brown-haired young woman."

      "Don't you know either of these ladies?"

      "No; that is, I've never seen Miss Curtiss, but Marie says I met Miss

      Fairfield one day, for a moment."

      "Don't you remember her?"

      "Hardly; she seemed an insignificant little thing."

      "Pretty?"

      "How do I know! She was all wrapped up in motor togs, and acted like a gawky schoolgirl."

      "She did! Why, I know that Fairfield girl, and she isn't gawky a bit!

      She's a fascinating blonde."

      "No blonde can fascinate ME! MY girl is a poppy-cheeked brunette, and I'm going to catch her before long. Ah, DO come to Marie's party,—won't you?"

      "I've never yet gone where I wasn't invited, and I don't propose to begin now. But if you can get Marie to invite me, I'll go."

      "Don't be so cruel! I can't do more than I have in the matter. I've teased Marie to death over this thing, and she can't think who you can be, unless you're a Miss Galbraith. You're not, are you?"

      "Gracious, no! I'm not Mona Galbraith!"

      "I knew you weren't; Marie says SHE can't sing. Oh, dear, you're a perfect torment! Pretty princess,—pretty Princess Poppy-cheek, WON'T you take pity on your humble slave and adorer, and tell me your name?"

      "No; but I'll tell you what I will do. I'll send you my photograph."

      "Oh, you heavenly angel! You dear, beautiful princess! When will you send it? Don't wait for the morning; call a messenger, and send it to-night!"

      "I'll do nothing of the sort. I'll send it to-morrow morning,—by messenger, if you like,—and if you'll promise not to ask the messenger who sent it."

      "I'll promise that if you so ordain. I guess I can play cricket!"

      "All right then; now listen, yourself. I shall send you three pictures. You pick out the one you think I am, and take it to Marie, and if you are right, she'll invite me. She knows me well enough, but she can't recognise me from your description."

      "I don't think it's fair for you to play that way; but I'm dead sure I can pick out your picture from the three."

      "All right then; good-night!" And Patty hung up the receiver with a snap.

      Then she lay back in her big chair and indulged in a series of giggles.

      "Sam Weller says," she said, to herself, "that the great art of letter writing is to break off suddenly and make 'em wish they was more,—and I expect that applies equally well to telephoning."

      And she was quite right, for the impatient young man at the other end of the wire was chagrined indeed when the connection was cut off. He was too honourable to use any forbidden means of discovering Patty's identity, and so would not ask to see any telephone records, and was quite willing to promise not to quiz a messenger boy. And so, he could do nothing but wait impatiently for the promised photograph.

      Meanwhile Miss Patricia Fairfield was looking over her portrait collection to see what ones to send. She had a box full of old photographs, but she wanted to select just the right ones.

      But at last she tumbled them all on the table in a heap, and wisely decided to leave the decision till morning.

      And so it happened, that when Nan came to Patty's room next morning, as she often did, she found that coquettish damsel, sitting up in bed, wrapped in a blue silk nightingale, and with a flower-decked lace cap somewhat askew on her tumbled curls.

      Her breakfast tray sat untouched on its little stand, while on the counterpane were spread out some twoscore portraits of more or less beautiful maidens.

      "What ARE you doing?" said Nan; "playing photograph solitaire?"

      "I'm playing a game of photographs," said Patty, raising a pair of solemn blue eyes to Nan, "but it isn't exactly solitaire."

      "You needn't tell ME! You're cutting up some trick with that new man of yours." And Nan deliberately brushed away some pictures, and sat down on the side of the bed.

      "You're a wizard!" and Patty gazed at her stepmother. "You could have made your fortune, Nan, as a clairvoyant, telling people what they knew already! But since you're here, DO help me out." And Patty told Nan the scheme of the three photographs.

      Now, Nan was only six years older than Patty herself, and she entered into the joke with almost as much enthusiasm as the younger girl.

      "Shall you send one of your own, really?" she inquired.

      "No; I think not. But I want to get three different types, just to fool him."

      After much consideration the two conspirators selected a picture of a dark-eyed actress, who was pretty, but of rather flashy effects. Next they chose a picture of an intellectual young woman, with no pretension to beauty or style, and whose tightly drawn black hair and stiff white collar proclaimed a high brow. It was a picture of one of the girls in Patty's class, who had been noted for her intellect and her lack of a sense of humour.

      "He'll know that isn't you, Patty," said Nan, objecting.

      "No," said Patty, sapiently; "he's pretty clever, that young man, and probably he'll think I'm just that sort. Now for the third, Nancy."

      It took a long time to select a third one, for Nan was in favour of a pretty girl, while Patty thought it would be more fun to send a plain one.

      At last they agreed on a picture of another of Patty's school friends, who was of the willowy, die-away kind. She was a blonde, but of a pale, ashen-haired variety, not at all like Patty's Dresden china type. The pose was aesthetic, and the girl looked soulful and languishing.

      "Just the thing!" cried Patty. "If he thinks I look like THAT, I'll never speak to him again!"

      And so, amid great glee, the three pictures were made into a neat parcel, and addressed to Mr. Christopher Cameron.

      "Now,

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