"You can't ask that common little Irishman to a _party_," objected her parent. "I won't go. He's my friend. I like him best, an' if he don't come, I won't go." "But it's _your_ party----" "I hate 'em." "You ought to whip her!" Mrs. Bryce said to the governess. A maid appeared at the door to announce the first arrivals. "Now, you see, your guests are coming, and you aren't even dressed." "I won't go," reiterated the child, sullenly. "If we ask Patsy, will you go?" asked Mrs. Bryce desperately. "No--o; yes." "Put on her clothes, Miss Wilder, and telephone the Lodge that Isabelle wants Patsy for her party." "But, Mrs. Bryce, do you think we ought to humour her? Will not the children's mothers object to Patsy?" "Well, if you want her to go to this party, you'd better make a bargain with her. I know her." "Come on. Hurry up, Miss Wilder; I want to go after Patsy myself," cried the tyrant, racing down the hall. Miss Wilder followed, and Mrs. Bryce turned to her book, with a sense of irritated futility which her only child always aroused in her. But the party soon faded from her mind, save when shrill shouts from the lawn below caught her attention. Eventually Mr. Walter Bryce, familiarly known as Wally, appeared at his wife's door. He was an undersized, dapper little man, with almost no chin. His sole claim to attention lay in the millions accumulated by his father. "Nice row you've got on down stairs," he remarked. "Isabelle's birthday party," yawned his wife. "Looks to me like poor old Wilder's birthday party. Just as I came along, a line of kids was marching up to give their hostess their presents. Old Wilder was hanging on to Isabelle so she wouldn't bolt, and the little beast wouldn't take one of the packages. Said she didn't want their presents. The poor Wilder appealed to me, and I told Isabelle to act like a lady, and whadye think she said to me--right there before all those smart-aleck kids?--'Get out, Wally, this is my party'!" Mrs. Bryce laughed. "You ought to know better than to give her a chance like that." "Look here now, Max, she's got to be attended to. She's the limit. She's got no more manners than an alley cat." "That's no news to me, Wally." "Why don't you do something about it?" "Do something? Don't I get her a new governess every month? Nobody can do anything with her." "I don't see where she gets it," said Wally. "She gets it from you, and she gets it from me. She's the worst of both of us personified." "Poor kid, that's tough luck for her"--seriously. "A little late for vain regrets"--sarcastically. He went over to the window and looked down at the party scattered about below. "Why wouldn't it be a good idea to keep her with you awhile every day, Max?" "Not much! I come down here to rest, not to play nursemaid. You might take her round with you, if you feel that she needs uplifting." "She's beyond me. I don't understand her; and, on the whole, I don't like her."