He was a tall young chap, with a good-natured smile, and Patty liked his face.
"I am an artist," he announced, "and a rattling good artist.

I haven't yet achieved my ultimate recognition, but it will come,--it must come.
I, therefore, I will undertake the task,--the ineffably joyous task of designing,--of inventing a dance for Miss Fairfield." "Do, Grantham," cried Blaney.

"No one could do it better.

Dream out a scheme, a picture plan that will be worthy of our little Terpsichore.
A dance that shall be a whirlwind of violets,--a tornado of lilting veils." "Veils!" cried Grantham, "that's the keynote! A Dance of the Year,--a mad gyration of Time,--of Time, himself, translated into thistledown,--into scented thistledown." "Bravo!" "Glorious!" Other praises were shouted, and the place was like a pandemonium.
Patty began to realise the Bohemians were a boisterous lot.

She clapped her hands over her ears in smiling dismay.
"Quiet!" said Blaney, in his low, exquisite tones, and in an instant the room was almost silent.
Committees were appointed to take charge of the Christmas celebration, and then the program began.
It was long, and, to Patty, a bit uninteresting.