Patty's Social Season. Wells Carolyn
you girls, skip,” ordered Patty.
“You haven’t more than time to fly home and get dressed, for I don’t want you to be late and delay the ceremony.”
“Gracious! it sounds like a wedding,” cried Mona, laughing.
“Well, it isn’t!” declared Patty. “I may have a wedding some day, but that’s in the far, far future; why, I’m only just entering society, and when I’m married, I suppose I shall leave it. I expect to have heaps of fun between this and then.”
The programme for the occasion was an afternoon reception, from four o’clock until seven. This was really Patty’s début. A dinner at eight was to follow, to which were invited about a dozen of her dearest friends, and after this would be a dance, to which a goodly number more were asked.
“You ought to have time for an hour’s rest, Patty,” said Nan, as she drew the girl away from a last look at the beautiful flowers, and took her up to her room.
“Well, I haven’t, little steppy-mother. It will be just about all Miss Patricia Fairfield can do to get into her purple and fine linen by four o’clock p.m., and methinks you’d better begin on your own glad toilette, or you’ll be late yourself.”
“Was I ever late?” asked Nan, scornfully, and as Patty responded, “never anything but,” she ran away to her own room.
However, four o’clock found all the members of the reception party in their places.
Patty looked adorable in soft white chiffon, untrimmed, save for some fine lace round the slightly low-cut neck. She wore a string of small but perfect pearls which her father had given her for the occasion, and she carried a beautiful bouquet of orchids, which was Nan’s gift.
Patty had never looked prettier. Her rose-leaf cheeks were slightly flushed with excitement, and her big violet eyes were bright and sparkling. Her golden hair, which was really unusual in texture and quantity, was dressed simply, yet in a manner very becoming to her small, prettily poised head. On her brow and temples it rippled in natural ringlets, which gave her piquant face a charming, childish effect. Patty was certainly a beauty, but she was of such a sweet, unspoiled nature, and of such simple, dainty manners, that everybody loved her.
Her father looked at her rather thoughtfully, half unable to realise that his little Patty had really grown up and was taking her place in society. He had no fears for her, he knew her sweet nature too well; but he was earnestly hoping that she was starting out on a life of happiness and well-being. Though healthy and moderately strong, Patty was not of a robust constitution, and there was danger that too much gaiety might result in a nervous breakdown. This, Mr. Fairfield determined to guard against; and resolved that, while Patty should be allowed generally to do as she chose, he should keep a strict eye against her overdoing.
Nan had much the same thoughts as she looked at the lovely débutante, so exquisite in her fresh young beauty. Nan’s gown of heavy white lace was very becoming, and though a secondary figure, she ably shared the honours of the afternoon with Patty.
Mona and Elise assisted in the capacity of “Floaters,” and in their pale pink frocks, they were quite in harmony with the floral setting of the picture.
And then the guests began to arrive, and Patty learned what it meant to stand and shake hands, and receive the same compliments and congratulations over and over again. It was interesting at first, but she grew very tired as the hours went by.
“Now, I say,” exclaimed a cheery voice, suddenly, “it can’t be that you have to stand here continuously from four to seven! Mrs. Fairfield, mayn’t I take Patty to get a cup of tea or an ice, and you stay here and ‘come out’ until she returns?”
It was Philip Van Reypen who made this request, and Nan consented readily. “Yes, indeed, Philip,” she said, “do take her off to rest a minute. I think most of the people have arrived; and, anyway, you must bring her back shortly.”
“I will,” and young Van Reypen led Patty through the crowd to the dining-room.
“I ought to find you a ‘quiet little corner,’” he said, smiling; “but I don’t see such a thing anywhere about. So I’ll just place you on one of these gimcrack gilt chairs, and I’ll ask you to keep this one next, for me, until I make a raid on the table. What will you have?”
“I don’t really want anything, Philip, but just to sit here a moment and rest. I had no idea coming out was so tiresome! I believe I’ve said, ‘oh, thank you!’ a billion times!”
“Yes, you said it to me,” and Philip laughed at the recollection, “and I can tell you, Patty, it had the real society ring! You said it like a conventionalised parrot.”
“Well, I don’t care if I did! It was the proper thing to say, and nobody could say it a million times in succession, without sounding parrotty! I know now how the President feels when he has to shake hands with the whole United States!”
Philip left her, and returned in a moment, followed by a waiter, who brought them hot bouillon and tiny sandwiches.
“My, but these are good!” exclaimed Patty, as she nibbled and sipped. “Why, Philip, I believe I was hungry and that’s what made me tired! Oh, hello, Mona! Did you get leave of absence, too?”
“Yes; the mad rush is pretty much over. Only a few late stragglers now, and Elise is floating them. Here’s Roger. He says you wouldn’t speak to him this afternoon, except to say, ‘oh, thank you!’ three times.”
“I couldn’t help it,” returned Patty, laughing. “That’s all I said to anybody. I felt like a rubber stamp—repeating myself. Well, thank goodness, I’m out!”
“But you’re not a bit more grown up than when you were in,” said Kenneth, joining the group around Patty.
“Oh, pshaw, I’m never going to be grown up. Now I’m rested, Philip; please take me back to Nan. She said we must return soon.”
So Patty went back to the drawing-room, and insisted that her stepmother should go for a little refreshment. “I can hold the fort alone now,” she said; “you’ve no idea how capable I am, now that I’m really out. Run along, Nan, and get some of those sandwiches; they’re awfully good.”
“It isn’t romantic, Patty, to think about eating when you’re celebrating an occasion like this,” reproved Philip.
“Well, I’m not romantic,” declared Patty, “and I never expect to be. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Galbraith? It’s so late, I feared you weren’t coming.” And Patty held out her hand to Mona’s father.
“How d‘y’do, Patty?” And Mr. Galbraith shook hands heartily. “I suppose I ought to say all sorts of pretty things to you, but you know, I’m not much up in social chat.”
“I’m glad of it,” said Patty, “and then I won’t have to say, ‘oh, thank you!’ to you. Mona is looking beautiful this afternoon, isn’t she?”
“She’s a fine girl—a fine girl.” Mr. Galbraith’s eyes rested on his daughter a little thoughtfully. He was a Chicago man, who had made his fortune suddenly, and was a little bewildered at his own success. His one interest in life, outside of business matters, was his daughter Mona, for whom he desired every possible good, and to whose wishes and whims he always willingly consented.
At her request, he had closed his Chicago home and come to spend the winter in New York, that Mona might be near Patty, whom she adored. The Galbraiths were living for the winter at the Plaza Hotel, and Patty, who had grown fond of Mona, was glad to have her friend so near her.
“She’s a fine girl,” Mr. Galbraith repeated, “and a good-looking girl.” He paused a moment, and then added in a sudden burst of confidence, “but, Patty, I wish she had a mother. You know how I idolise her, but I can’t do for her what a mother would do. I’ve urged her to have a chaperon or a companion of some sort, but she won’t do it. She says a father is chaperon enough for her, and so we live alone in that big hotel, and I’m afraid it isn’t right. Right for her, I mean. I don’t care a snap about conventions,