Patty's Social Season. Wells Carolyn

And, Nan, you know there are so many clubs that make an awful fuss and yet don’t really do anything. Well, this is going to be a Doing Club. We’re going to be real doers.”

      “It sounds lovely, Patty. What are you going to do?”

      “We don’t know yet, that’s what the meeting’s for this afternoon. But we’re going to do good, you know—some kind of good. You know, Nan, I always said I didn’t want to be just a social butterfly and nothing else. I want to accomplish something that will give some joy or comfort to somebody.”

      Patty’s blue eyes looked very earnest and sincere as she said this, and Nan kissed her, saying, “I know you do, Patty, dearest, and I know you’ll succeed in your doing. If I can help you in any way, be sure to ask me; and now I’ll run away and let you dress.”

      Patty made a leisurely toilette; and then, in a trailing blue silk négligée, she went into her boudoir and began to write her notes.

      It was not a difficult task, and she did not really mind it, though it was a long list. But Patty had a knack at writing graceful little notes, and although she jested about it, she was really grateful to the kind friends who had sent the flowers.

      “I don’t know why I have so many friends,” she said to herself, as she scanned the rows of names. “To be sure, a great many are really friends of father’s and Nan’s, but there’s a lot of our crowd, too, and lots of out of town people. Perhaps it would be a good idea to do the farthest away first, and so work back to New York.”

      Patty picked up Mr. Farnsworth’s card, and read again the message on it. “H’m,” she said to herself, “it sounds to me a trifle formal and conventional—considering all things. Now, Little Billee is a Western man,—but how different he is from that Lansing person! I wonder what makes the difference. Little Billee isn’t formal or conventional a bit, and yet his manners are as far removed from Horace Lansing’s as white is from black. Oh, well, I know the reason well enough. It’s because Little Billee is a thorough gentleman at heart; and the other one is,—well, I guess he’s what Roger called him. Now, what shall I say to Mr. William Farnsworth by way of thanks for his truly beautiful pink roses? I’d like to write a nice, every-day letter, and tell him all about the party and everything; but, as he just sent his visiting card, with a mere line on it, I suppose I must reply very formally.”

      Patty began her formal note, but tore up half a dozen beginnings before she completed one to her satisfaction. This one read, “Miss Patricia Fairfield thanks Mr. William Farnsworth sincerely for his exquisite gift of roses, and for his kind congratulations.”

      Patty gave a little sigh as she sealed this missive and addressed it to her friend in Arizona.

      With the exception of the roses, Patty had never heard a word from Big Bill since they were at Spring Beach together. She had told her father and Nan of what Mr. Farnsworth had said to her down there, and as they had agreed that Patty was altogether too young even to think of such a thing as being engaged to anybody, it was wiser to hold no correspondence with him at all.

      Apparently, this in no way disappointed the young man, for he had made no effort on his part to recall himself to Patty’s remembrance, until the occasion of sending the flowers.

      Patty had liked Bill extremely, but as Arizona was far away, and she had no reason to think she would ever see him again, she gave him few thoughts. However, the thoughts, when she did allow them to come, were pleasant ones. Although she had sealed the note she intended to send, she began another one, and the opening words were “Little Billee.” This note she wrote in the first person, and thanked him simply and naturally for the flowers. Then, for a signature, she made a carefully and daintily drawn pen-and-ink sketch of an apple blossom. She was clever at flower-sketching, and she sat a moment admiring her own handiwork. Then a flush spread over her pretty face, and she spoke sternly to herself, as was her habit when she disapproved of her own actions.

      “Patty Fairfield,” she said, reprovingly, “you ought to be ashamed to think of sending a personal, lettery sort of a note like that, to a man who sent you the formalest kind of a message! He only sent the flowers, because convention demanded it! He never gave you one single thought after that last time he saw you,—and that’s all there is about that!”

      And then, to her great surprise, luncheon was announced, and she found that her whole morning was gone and only one name on her list crossed off!

      The club that met that afternoon in Mona’s pretty sitting-room in the Plaza Hotel, consisted of only four girls—Patty, Mona, Elise, and Clementine Morse.

      It was thought wiser to start with a few earnest members and then enlarge the number later if it seemed advisable.

      “What a beautiful room!” said Clementine, as she tossed off her furs. “Don’t you like it, Mona, to live in a big hotel like this, and yet have your own rooms, like a home all to yourself?”

      “Yes, I like it in some ways; but I’m alone a great deal. However, I would be that, if father and I lived in a house or an apartment.”

      “You ought to have a companion of some sort, Mona,” said Patty, who thought this a good opportunity to urge Mr. Galbraith’s wishes.

      “No, thank you,” and Mona tossed her head, disdainfully; “I know what companions are! Snoopy old maids who won’t let you do anything, or careless, easy-going old ladies who pay no attention to you. If I could have a companion of my own age and tastes, I’d like that,—but I suppose that wouldn’t do.”

      “Hardly,” said Elise, laughing; “that would only mean your father would have two troublesome girls to look after instead of one. And I daresay, Mona, you are quite as much as he can handle.”

      “I suppose I am. But he’s so good to me I’m afraid he spoils me. But come on, girls, let’s organise our club.”

      “Don’t let’s have too much organisation,” said Clementine. “Do you know, I think lots of clubs, especially charity clubs, have so much organisation that they haven’t anything else. One club I joined fell to pieces before it was fairly started, because the two vice-presidents squabbled so.”

      “If there’s anything I hate,” declared Patty, “it’s a squabble. Whatever else we girls do, let’s try not to have any friction. Now, I know perfectly well that none of us four is very meek or mild.”

      “I am,” declared Elise, assuming an angelic expression, which made them all laugh, for Elise was really the one most likely to take offence at trifles, or to flare up impulsively if any one disagreed with her.

      Patty knew this only too well, and was trying to forestall it by a preliminary treaty of peace.

      “Well, then, let’s be an organisation that doesn’t organise,” said Mona, “but let’s be it now.”

      “I think,” said Patty, “that our end and aim ought to be to do good to somebody who doesn’t expect it. Now, that isn’t quite what I mean,—I mean to people who wouldn’t accept it if it seemed like charity, but to whom we could give a pleasure that they would really like.”

      “Patty, my child,” said Clementine, “I think your ideas are all right, but I must say you don’t express them very clearly. Let’s get down to something definite. Do you mean to give material things,—like presents or money?”

      “That’s just exactly what I don’t mean, Clem! Don’t you remember that little club we used to have at school,—the Merry Grigs?”

      “Indeed I do! All we had to do was to be merry and gay.”

      “Well, that’s what I mean,—in a way,—if you know what I mean.”

      “Oh, Patty,” cried Mona, “I never knew you to be so hopelessly vague. Now, for instance, how would it be if we gave a lovely motor ride to some poor shop girl, or somebody that never gets into a motor?”

      “That’s it!” cried Clementine, approvingly; “I was thinking of sending flowers to hospitals, but that’s so general. Now, your suggestion, Mona, is definite, and just the right sort