I'm only Patty, and if you call me anything else I'll run away." "Don't run away," said Mr.Hepworth, still looking at her with that grave kindliness that seemed to have about it a touch of sadness.

"I will call you Patty as long as you will stay with me." Then Patty smiled again, quite her own merry little self, and gave him her card, saying: "Put your name down a lot of times, please; you are a beautiful dancer, and I like best to dance with the people I know best." "I wish I had a rubber stamp," said Mr.Hepworth; "it's very fatiguing to write one's name on every line." "Oh, good gracious!" cried Patty, "don't take them all.

I want to save a lot for Frank and Ken--" "And your father," said Mr.Hepworth.
"Papa?
He doesn't dance--at least, I never saw him." "But he did dance that last waltz, with Miss Allen." "With Nan?
Well, then, I rather think he can dance with his own daughter.

Don't take any more; I want all the rest for him, and please take me to him." "Here he comes now.

Mr.Fairfield, your daughter wishes a word with you." "Papa Fairfield!" exclaimed Patty, "you never told me you could dance!" "You never asked me; you took it for granted that I was too old to frisk around the ballroom." "And aren't you ?" asked Patty teasingly.
"Try me and see," said her father, as he took her card.
The trial proved very satisfactory, and Patty declared that she must have inherited her own taste for dancing from her father.
The evening passed all too swiftly.