These people were our guests.

I forbid any slighting allusions to them.

Their ways may not be our ways, but if they are Patty's friends they are my friends." The warm, sincere ring of Nan's voice went to Patty's heart, and she smiled again.
"Good for you, you old trump!" she exclaimed, looking gratefully at Nan.

"Now, Dad, you come over, and I can manage Chick, myself." Patty was in gay good humour again, and she perched on the arm of her father's chair, as she proceeded to win him over.
"You know I can't resist your blandishments, my angel child," he said, as Patty caressed his handsome iron-grey hair, "but I must admit your Cosmickers have no message for me." "That's just it," cried Patty, triumphantly.

"I knew it! They have no message for you, because you don't understand their language, you're--Dad, I hate to say it,--but, you're too old!" And with a kiss on his frowning forehead, Patty ran to the piano, and began to play "Silver Threads Among the Gold," to a rag-time improvisation of her own.
"Oh, Pattibelle," cried Chick, "what would your vast-horizoned friends say if they could hear you playing ragtime! I'm sure a lemon-coloured nocturne or a flaming fugue would be nearer their idea of melody." "Play us a fox-trot, Nan," said Patty, jumping up, and in another minute, as Nan obligingly acquiesced, Patty and Chick were dancing gaily up and down the room.
"Forgive me, Patty," said Chick, as they danced out into the hall, "I wouldn't offend you or your friends for worlds, but they--well, they struck me funny, you see." "They're not funny, Chick.