"Now take
it standing, Patty,--face it squarely,--and you'll be all right.
We're housed up here,--for how long, Cameron?"
"I--I don't know," said Kit, looking desperate.
"That only means you won't tell," declared his cousin. "Own up, Kit,
how long did the doctor say?"
"Three or four weeks."
"Oh!" Patty merely breathed the word, but it sounded like a wail of
despair. Then she caught Kenneth's eye, and his glance of steadfast
courage nerved her anew.
"It's all right," she said, almost succeeding in keeping a quiver
out of her voice. "We can have a real good time. People can send us
all sorts of things, and,--I suppose we can't write letters,--but we
can telephone. Oh, that reminds me; may I telephone Mr. Van Reypen
at once, that I can't"--Patty blinked her eyes, and swallowed hard--
"that I can't be at my--at his party this evening?"
Mr. Cameron looked a picture of abject grief.
"Miss Fairfield," he began, "if I could only tell you how sorry I
am--"
"Please don't," said Patty, kindly; "I've accepted the situation
now, and you won't hear a single wail of woe from me. Pooh! what's a
theatre party more or less among me! And a few weeks' rest will do
us all good. We'll pretend we're at a rest cure or sanitarium, and
go to bed early, and get up late, and all that.
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