The Patsys of this world are not given to trading on their charm or powers of attraction to win men to them--it is against their creed of true womanhood. Moreover, a man counts no more than a woman in their sum total of daily pleasure, and when they choose a comrade it is for human qualities, not sexualities. And because of this, this particular Patsy felt the more intensely the humiliation and challenge of the moment. She hated herself; she hated the man, whoever he might be; she hated the tinker for his share in it all. Anger loosened her tongue at last. "Who, in the name of Saint Bridget, are ye?" she demanded. And the man in white flannels threw back his head and laughed. VIII WHEN TWO WERE NOT COMPANY The laughter would have proved contagious to any except one in Patsy's humor; and, as laughing alone is sorry business, the man soon sobered and looked over at Patsy with the merriment lingering only in his eyes. "By Willie Shakespeare, it's the duke's daughter in truth!" The words made little impression on her; it was the laugh and voice that puzzled her; they were unmistakably the tinker's. But there was nothing familiar about face, figure, or expression, although Patsy studied them hard to find some trace of the man she had been journeying with. With a final bewildered shake of the head her eyes met his coldly, mockingly. "My name is Patricia O'Connell"--her voice was crisp and tart; "it's the Irish for a short temper and a hot one. Now maybe you will have the grace to favor me with yours." "Just the tinker," he complied, amiably, "and very much at your service." This was accompanied by a sweeping bow. Patsy had marked that bow on two previous occasions, and it testified undeniably to the man's identity. Yet Patsy's mind balked at accepting it; it was too galling to her pride, too slanderous of her past judgment and perceptibilities. A sudden rush of anger brought her to her feet, and, coming over to the opposite side of the hearth, she faced him, flushed, determined, and very dignified. It is to be doubted if Patsy could have sustained the latter with any degree of conviction if she could have seen herself. Straying strands of still damp hair curled bewitchingly about her face, bringing out the roundness of cheek and chin and the curious, guileless expression of her eyes. Moreover, the coquettish gown she wore was entrancing; it was a light blue, tunic affair with wide baby collar and cuffs, and a Roman girdle; and she had found stockings to match, with white buckskin pumps. It had been blind chance on her part--this making of a toilet, but the effect was none the less adorable--and condemning to dignity.