Though shy in society, she was most practical and unembarrassed about her art study. Not over-conceited, but perfectly aware of the extent of her own talent, and also of her own ignorance. And she had a calm determination to improve the one and conquer the other. Christine was pretty, in her soft Southern way. She was small, and dainty in all her effects. Her oval face was serious, almost sad in its expression, but, if she were interested in a subject, it would light up into sudden beauty. Her clothes betokened her artistic tastes, and she never wore dresses of the fashionable type, but soft, clinging gowns in dull, pastel colours. A bit of old embroidery or unusual jewelry added an effective touch, and Christine always looked well dressed, though her clothes cost far less than Patty’s. The two girls were absolutely unlike, and yet they were fast becoming great friends. But Christine possessed almost no sense of humour, and Patty feared she could never be really chummy with any one who lacked that. Elise was not very fond of Christine, for she didn’t understand her at all, and secretly thought her rather stupid. But the boys, Roger and Kenneth, liked the Southern maiden, with her soft, pretty accent, and, of course, Mr. Hepworth was her friend. So the whole group was fairly congenial, and they formed a pleasant little circle in the library, to drink their tea. “Sorry I’m late,” said a cheery voice, and Philip Van Reypen joined them. “Oh! how do you do?” cried Patty, jumping up to greet him. “Miss Farley, may I present Mr. Van Reypen? I think the rest are all acquainted.” There were general greetings all round, and then Philip took his place with the rest. “My aunt is here,” he said, to Patty. “A little later, perhaps, she wants to meet Miss Farley.” “So she shall,” said Patty, remembering Miss Van Reypen’s offer to help Christine in some way. “Will you have tea?” “Will I have tea?” echoed Philip. “That’s exactly what I’m here for. Please, yes.” “Then here you are,” said Patty, handing him a cup; “and, incidentally, do you know how a bookworm goes through a book?” “Ugh! what an unpleasant subject,” said Elise, with a shrug of her shoulders. “Patty, do talk of something else.” “I can’t,” said Patty, solemnly; “I _must_ know about the manners and customs of a well-conducted bookworm.” “Do you mean a real bookworm, or a studious person?” asked Mr. Hepworth, who often took Patty’s questions very seriously. “I mean the—the entomological sort,” said Patty, “and I’m in dead earnest. Who knows anything about the bookworms that really destroy books?” “I do,” announced Kenneth, “but nothing would induce me to tell. Theirs is a secret history, and not to be made known to a curious world.” “Pooh!” said Roger, “that’s all bluff. Patty, he doesn’t really know anything about the beasts. Now, I do. A bookworm is a grub.” “No,” said Philip, “the book is the bookworm’s grub. And pretty dry fodder he must often find it.”