souls rarely allowed
themselves to be surprised at anything, however peculiar.

As they passed Sam Blaney, Patty noticed that he stood, leaning against
the wall, his arms folded, and a strange expression on his face,--half
defiant, half afraid.

Farnsworth carried Patty down the stairs and out of the house, and
placed her with care, but a bit unceremoniously, in the tonneau of a
waiting motor-car. He jumped in beside her, and pulled the lap robe
over her. The car started at once, and was well under way by the time
Patty found voice enough to express her indignation.

"You--perfectly--horrid--old--thing!" she gasped, almost crying from
sheer surprise and anger.

"Yes?" he said, and she detected laughter in his tone, which made her
angrier than ever.

"I hate you!" she burst forth.

"Do you, dear?" and Farnsworth rearranged the rug to protect her more
fully.

There was such gentleness in his touch, such tenderness in his voice,
that Patty's anger melted to plain curiosity.

"Why did you do that?" she demanded. "Why did you bring me away in
such--such caveman fashion?"

Farnsworth smiled. "It was a caveman performance, wasn't it? But you
wouldn't come willingly."

"Of course I wouldn't! Why should I?"

"For three very good reasons." Farnsworth spoke, gravely. "First, you
were in a place where you didn't belong. I couldn't let you remain
there."

"It is not your business to say where I belong!"

"I wouldn't want any one I care for to be in that place."

"Not even Daisy Dow?"

"Certainly not Daisy."

"Oh, not Daisy--of _all_ people! Oh, certainly _not_!"

"Next, you were doing what you ought not to do."

"What!"

"Yes, you were. You danced barefoot before those--those unspeakable
fools!"

Patty felt uncomfortable. She hadn't herself exactly liked the idea of
that barefoot dance, and hadn't told any one she was going to do it.
She had insisted to Mr. Grantham that she preferred to wear sandals.
But he had talked so beautifully of the naturalness of the whole
conception, the exquisite appropriateness of unshod feet, and the
necessity of her carrying out his design as a whole, that she had
yielded.

And now that Bill Farnsworth spoke of it in this rude way, it seemed to
divest the dance of all its aesthetic beauty, and make of it a horrid,
silly performance.

She tried to speak, tried to reply in indignant or angry vein, but she
couldn't articulate at all. A lump came into her throa