“Hist, she comes!” declared a weird figure in a sepulchral voice, as he waited in the middle of the stage.
“Hist, she comes!”
But nobody came.
“That’s her cue,” he muttered; “what can be the matter? I say,” he cleared his throat and spoke louder: “Hist, she comes!” As the expected entrance was still delayed, he only said: “Well, she ought to be hissed when she does come!” And calmly sat down to wait for her, amid the applause of the audience.
The short playlet soon came to an end, and still shaking with laughter, the party went out again into the beautiful atmosphere which is found on a spring day in Regent’s Park.
“Now, my children,” said Mrs. Hartley, “I simply cannot walk about any more. I’m going to sit in one of those chairs yonder, for I see some people I know over there. You can amuse yourselves with Punch and Judy, or Ring Toss or whatever you like, and come back to me in an hour or so. Sinclair, look after the little ones, won’t you?”
It was a great joke that Sinclair, the oldest Hartley boy, should look after the others. He had reached the age of twenty, and was much more grave and dignified than Bob and Grace. Mrs. Hartley often declared she could even trust him to match samples for her, so careful was he. So the young people wandered away and spent a delightful hour looking at the beautiful or grotesque sights that adorned the fair.
Patty could not do much financially, but under cover of giving to charity, she bought pretty souvenirs for Mabel and Mrs. Hartley, and laughingly invited the group to be photographed by a Camera Fiend.
This personage was clothed in red, and with black horns and Mephistophelean countenance was made to look as much like a fiend as possible. With outlandish hoots and yells, he posed the group and took several snapshots, which they were to call for later.
As they concluded it was nearly time to drift back to Mrs. Hartley, Patty noticed a gentleman who stood at a little distance, looking at her intently.
“Who’s your friend, Patty?” asked Mabel. “Do you know him?”
“Yes,” said Patty, slowly. “He’s Sir Otho Markleham.”
“So he is,” said Bob. “I’ve seen him often, but I don’t know him personally.”
Sir Otho, still looking at Patty, took a few steps toward her, and then paused irresolutely.
“Please excuse me,” said Patty to the others, “I think I’ll go speak to him for a minute.”
“Do,” said Mr. Lawton; “we’ll wait for you right here.”
Following an impulse, Patty walked directly toward Sir Otho, who looked as if he would like to run away.
“How do you do?” she said, pleasantly, as they met.
“Quite well,” he said, but there was no responsiveness in his manner. “Do you wish to speak to me?”