And the day before their departure, Elise gave a little farewell tea, to which were bidden only the people Patty liked best. The Blaneys were there, and, capturing Patty, Sam took her from the laughing crowd and led her to a secluded alcove of the veranda. It was a pleasant nook, enclosed with glass panes, and filled with ferns and palms. "Sit thee down," said Blaney, arranging a few cushions in a long low wicker chair. "I'm glad to," and Patty dropped into the seat. "I do think teas are the limit for tiring people out." "You oughtn't to waste yourself on teas. It's a crime," and Blaney looked positively indignant. "What would be the proper caper for my indefatigable energy?" "You oughtn't to be energetic at all. For you, just to _be_, is enough." "Not much it isn't! Why, if I just be'd, and didn't do anything else, I should die of that extreme bored feeling. And, it isn't like you to recommend such an existence, anyway." "I shouldn't for any one else. But you, oh, my lily-fair girl, you are so beautiful, so peerless----" "Good gracious, Mr. Blaney, what has come over you?" Patty sat up straight, in dismay, for she had no intention of being talked to in that vein by Sam Blaney. "The spell of your presence," he replied; "the spell of your beauty,--your charm, your----" "Please don't," said Patty, "please don't talk to me like that! I don't like it." "No? Then of course I'll stop. But the spell remains. The witchery of your face, your voice----" "There you go again! You promised to stop." "How can I, with you as inspiration? My soul expands,--my heart beats in lilting rhythms, you seem to me a flame goddess----" "Just what is a flame goddess?" interrupted Patty, who wanted to giggle, but was too polite. "I see your soul as a flame of fire,--a lambent flame, with tongues of red and yellow----" And now Patty did laugh outright. She couldn't help it. "Oh, my soul hasn't tongues," she protested. "I'm sure it hasn't, Mr. Blaney." "Yes," he repeated, "tongues, silent, untaught tongues,--but with unknown, unvoiced melodies that await but the torch of sympathy to sound, lyrically, upon the waiting air." "Am I really like that? Do you think I could voice lyrics, myself? I mean it,--write poetry, you know. I've always wanted to. Do you think I could, Mr. Blaney?" "I know it. Unfolding one's soul in song is not an art, as some suppose, to be learned,--it is a natural, irrepressible expression of the inner ego, it is a response to the melodic urge----" "Oh, wait a minute, you're getting beyond me. What do all these things mean? It's so much Greek to me." "But you want to learn?" "Yes; that is, I'm interested in it. I always did think I'd like to write poetry. But I don't know the rules." "There are no rules. Unfetter your soul, take a pencil,--the words will come." "Really? Can you do that, Mr. Blaney? Could you take a pencil, _now_,--and just write out your soul, and produce a poem?"