CHAPTER VII SOME NEW FRIENDS

“Well, Patty,” said Mr. Fairfield, as they sat in their pleasant library waiting for dinner-time; “the week is up, and I suppose you have shaken the dust of the Oliphant school off of your feet for the last time.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Man,” said Patty, smiling; “I’ve decided to try it for another week.”

“That’s pretty good news. And what brought about this sudden change of base?”

“Why, papa, the whole trouble in a nutshell is only—Lorraine Hamilton.”

“Why, you don’t mean she’s set the girls against you!”

“Not purposely; indeed, I don’t even suppose she knows it herself. But the real reason the girls didn’t want to get acquainted with me was because they thought that as I was always with Lorraine, and seemed so intimate with her I must be just like her. And do you know, they can’t abide Lorraine; and, papa, she is trying.”

“Yes, she is. It’s a pity, but really I can’t blame anybody for not liking that doleful little piece of femininity.”

“And it isn’t only her dolefulness, but she seems disagreeable by nature. You know I told you I’d try to cheer her up, and I have; but, gracious, you might as well try to amuse a weeping-willow. I never saw such a girl!”

“It’s true,” said Grandma; “I’m so surprised and disappointed that Ellen Howard’s grand-daughter should turn out like that. Mrs. Hamilton is always cheerful and pleasant, but Lorraine isn’t one bit like her. At first I was sorry for the girl, but now I feel indignant with her. I know she could be different if she tried.”

“But seriously, Patty,” said Mr. Fairfield, “did the schoolgirls boycott you because you were friendly with Lorraine?”

“Yes, exactly that, papa. You see, I was more than friendly. We were inseparable—I was with her all the time. Of course the reason was that I hadn’t anyone else to go with; but the girls didn’t understand that. They thought I was——”

“Tarred with the same brush,” suggested Mr. Fairfield. “Well you’re not; you’re a ray of sunshine compared to that murky thunder-cloud. And it’s outrageous that you should be punished for her faults. How did you find all this out?”

“Clementine Morse told me to-day; and she says if I’ll drop Lorraine, the rest of the girls are more than willing to be chummy and nice. But, papa, it doesn’t seem right to drop Lorraine like that, and I don’t know what to do.”

“It is an awkward situation, I admit; but justice demands that your welfare should be considered as well as hers. Now look at it squarely and fairly. You’ve devoted this whole week to Lorraine, and apparently it hasn’t done her one bit of good and it has done you harm. And supposing you were to keep on in that way, what would be the result?”

“I don’t believe it would be a bit different,” said Patty, honestly. “She’s been at the school two years before this, and Clementine says that they’ve all tried to make her more jolly and sociable, but they couldn’t do it, so they finally gave it up.”

“It’s an unusual case and a very unfortunate one,” said Mr. Fairfield seriously. “But though Lorraine isn’t pleasant and companionable, there is no reason why you should sacrifice yourself for her sake.”

“But what can I do? Lorraine is right here in the house and I have to walk to school and back with her, and I don’t want to be mean to her.”

“Your own tact must manage that, Patty,” said Grandma, in her decided way. Patty had often noticed that when Grandma Elliott gave advice, it was good advice and very much to the point. So she listened with interest as Grandma went on: “You needn’t cut Lorraine, or drop her friendship entirely; but you can certainly be friends with the other girls, even though she is not. When they invite you or give you an opportunity to join their pleasures, give Lorraine a fair chance, too, and if she isn’t capable of taking advantage of it, let her alone. You have done your part and are no further responsible. Of course you understand that this is not to be said in so many words, but I know your sense of honour and justice and your kind heart will make it possible for you to manage it tactfully and well.”

“That’s exactly right,” said Mr. Fairfield; “Grandma has expressed in words just what I had in mind. Now go ahead, Chicken, do all you can for Lorraine, but not to the extent of injuring your own standing among those whom you have every reason to wish to please. And I think after a week or two matters will adjust themselves, and you will fall naturally into the right groove. You have had an unpleasant experience, but I think it will come out right yet, and perhaps in the long run you may be able to help Lorraine, after all.”

“You are the dearest people!” cried Patty, flinging one arm around her father’s neck, while with the other hand she patted Grandma’s pretty white hair; “any girl ought to be good and nice with such helpers and advisers as you two. I’m sure it will all come out right, and I’m as happy as a clam now. It’s been a horrid week, but we won’t think about that any more and I know next week will be lovely.”

“That’s the way to talk,” said her father; “forget the unpleasant things that happen and think only about the happy ones. I believe that remark, or something similar, has been made before, but it’s just as true as if it hadn’t been. And now, the affairs of state being, settled, I’d like to have some dinner.”

As they went down in the elevator they met Lorraine and her mother.

“How nice you look,” said Patty, glancing at a pretty new frock the girl was wearing.

“Oh, I think it’s horrid,” said Lorraine, fretfully; “it’s such an ugly shade of blue and the sleeves are too big.”

“Now you see how it is, papa,” said Patty a few moments later as they seated themselves at their own table; “you heard what Lorraine said about her dress, and that’s just the way she always is. Nothing pleases her.”

“Bad case of chronic discontent,” said Mr. Fairfield, “and, I fear, incurable. I’m glad you are not like that.”

After dinner, as they often did, they paused for a few moments in the attractive hotel library. In a few moments the Harts came in, and Adelaide went directly up to Patty and said:

“Won’t you come and talk to us a little while? I want you to meet my sisters.”

Patty was quite ready to meet this cordiality half-way, and mutual introductions all around were the result.

Mr. Hart and Mr. Fairfield soon hit upon congenial topics for conversation, and Mrs. Hart proved pleasantly entertaining to Grandma Elliott.

This left the young people to themselves, and Patty found the three girls merry and full of fun.

Adelaide was about Patty’s own age, Jeannette was younger, and Editha, the oldest sister, who was eighteen, was no longer a schoolgirl. But she was not out in society, and had teachers at home in French and music.

Patty admired Editha very much, she was so pretty and graceful and did not put on young ladyfied airs.

Adelaide was not pretty, but she had bright eyes and a humorous smile, and Patty soon discovered that to have fun was the principal end and aim of her existence.

Jeannette seemed to be a nice child, and Patty suddenly realised that it must be a jolly sort of thing to be one of three sisters.

“I quite envy you each other,” she said, “you must have such good times together.”

“Yes, we do,” said Adelaide; “haven’t you any brothers or sisters?”

“No,” said Patty, “not either. And I have no mother; she died when I was a baby. But I shall have, next spring,” she added, smiling, “for then my father is going to marry a lady I’m very fond of. She won’t be a bit like a mother, for she’s only six years older than I am, but she’ll be just like a sister, and I shall be so glad to have her with us. But I never get lonely; I have lots of things to amuse myself, and then there’s always papa and Grandma.”

“How do you like the Oliphant school?” asked Editha.

“Pretty well,” said Patty, smiling; “at least I shall like it when I get a little better acquainted. I’ve only been there a week yet.”

Adelaide said nothing about Lorraine, but somehow Patty felt sure that Clementine had spoken a good word for her; and now as she had a chance to justify herself to Adelaide, she was her own happy, merry little self, and the four girls got on famously.

It was not long before Patty reached the conclusion that the Harts were a thoroughly interesting family. Adelaide seemed really clever, and Patty was amazed to hear her tell of a fountain which she had herself constructed in the parlour of their apartment.

“Why, it was as easy as anything,” she said; “I just took a big bronze vase—a flat one, you know, that papa got in Rome or Florence or somewhere—and then I took an antique bronze lamp, Egyptian, I think it is, and I turned the lamp upside down on top of the vase. And then I got a piece of lead pipe, and of course we had to have a plumber to connect it with the water-pipe. But the bathroom is just the other side of the partition, and so that was easy. Then I put palms and plants and things all around it and so it makes a lovely fountain. Would you like to see it? Can’t you come up to our rooms now?”

“I’d like to ever so much,” said Patty, and after a word to Grandma the four girls went off together.

The Harts’ apartment was very similar to the Fairfields’, but on the floor above them. It was furnished with a queer jumble of tastes. The main furniture, of course, was that which belonged to the hotel, but the individual touches were eccentric and rather picturesque.

The fountain was really surprising, and Patty thought Adelaide’s description had by no means done it justice. The classic-shaped bronzes were exceedingly ornamental, the palms were tall and luxurious, and the soft tinkle of the continually falling water made a delightful sound. In the lower basin were several goldfish, and Patty could scarcely believe that Adelaide had planned and executed the whole affair herself.

“Why, it was nothing to do,” said the modest architect; “I love to build things. I’ve made shirt-waist boxes for all of us; I’ll make you one if you want it.”

“Oh, thank you,” cried Patty, quite overcome by this delightful change in Adelaide’s attitude toward her; “I suppose you’ll think me very ignorant, but really I don’t know what a shirt-waist box is.”

“Oh, that’s just the name of them,” explained Editha; “you don’t have to keep shirt-waists in them. They’re just big boxes, with covers like a trunk, and Adelaide does make them beautifully. She covers them with a kind of Chinese matting, and she even puts on brass corners and hinges. Come into my room with me and I will show you one.”

They all followed Editha to her pretty bedroom, and Patty saw and admired not only the shirt-waist box, but many of Editha’s other treasures. Among them was a box of chocolates, and soon the girls were nibbling away at the candy, and, as is usual in such circumstances, growing very friendly and well acquainted.

But though the Hart girls were so pleasant to Patty, they were not so amiable with one another. Editha patronised Adelaide and treated her as if she were very young and ignorant. Adelaide resented this, but she in turn domineered over Jeannette, and there were frequent sharp bickerings back and forth which made Patty feel decidedly uncomfortable.

However, the Harts had a strong sense of humour, and more often than not their squabbles ended with a joke and a merry peal of laughter.

It was all very novel and entertaining, and when Mrs. Hart returned to the apartment Patty was surprised to learn that it was after nine o’clock, and that Grandma had sent word for her to come home.

“Well,” she said, as she sat down in a little chair by her father’s side, “I’ve made three friends, anyway. The Hart girls are awfully nice. They seem to be rather snappy to each other, but they were lovely to me, and I think I shall like them. They’re full of fun and jokes, and Adelaide is the cleverest thing you ever saw. Why, papa, she has a whole fountain right in their drawing-room.”

“And a terrace and a driveway?”

“No, not quite that, but I wouldn’t be surprised the next time I go to find she has built one. She can build anything.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found somebody to play with, Puss, and I hope they’ll be more satisfactory than the dismal Lorraine. By the way, what became of her? Did she melt into thin air?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure; I didn’t see her at all after dinner.”

“I suppose she abdicated in favour of Adelaide. But don’t drop her all at once, Puss. Hunt her up to-morrow and offer her a chance to have her share of the fun, whether she takes it or not.”