et delightfully entertaining friend of hers, as chief
guests. And how was anyone to know what Rosamond Merton might think of
such swift intimacies?

CHAPTER VIII

PATRICIA RECEIVES AN INVITATION

The next few weeks sped pleasantly for Patricia.

Rosamond Merton was an ideal room-mate. She never intruded on Patricia's
privacy, nor withdrew unsociably when Patricia felt inclined for chat.
She allowed Patricia to make her own hours for use of the fine piano in
her sitting-room and was patient under the many changes which the
despotic Tancredi inflicted on the submissive Patricia, shifting her own
practicing with such delicate tact that her fellow student scarcely
realized her sacrifices.

"She's perfectly wonderful, Norn," declared Patricia, standing at the
studio window one Sunday night about the middle of February. "She never
gets cross or fussed like I do, and she is always so beautifully
dressed. I am sometimes quite ashamed of my plain self when we are going
about together. I do look awfully little-girly and prim in most of my
clothes. I wish I were more ornamental," she ended with a tiny
apologetic frown.

Judith looked at Elinor and nodded. "I knew it," she said. "I knew Miss
Pat would be getting spoiled by spending all her time with such a showy
person."

Patricia laughed a short, annoyed laugh. "Nonsense, Judy. I'm not a bit
different. I only wish I didn't have to put all my patrimony into Madame
Tancredi's pocket. I hate to go about with Rosamond, looking like her
maid. I've worn that same suit to every place we've gone and I believe
people think I sleep in it now."

Elinor looked slightly troubled. "If you'd only let us get you a new
frock----" she began.

Patricia cut her short. "Hardly," she said emphatically. "I've told you
all along that I wouldn't sponge on any of you. It's bad enough to take
so much from dear old Ted. No, I'll go on exactly as I planned, and I
won't get a single new thing until spring."

This virtuous declaration did not seem to stimulate her as it should
have done, for she added, rather dolefully for her, "I wish I were like
Constance Fellows or Ethel Walters. They never seem to mind being
shabby."

"You can scarcely call yourself shabby--and I'm sure Constance loves
beautiful things," said Elinor with gentle firmness. "You couldn't look
at her work and not realize how she gloried in color and form."

Judith wagged her head wisely. "Perhaps she can stand doing with