"Patricia," he said, "I want you to think over what I've said. Be sure, be doubly sure, before you expose yourself to the possibility of suffering. Remember that, won't you?" "I'll try to. Don't fret yourself about it, Dr. Carl; I'm a hard-boiled young modern, and it takes a diamond to even scratch me." "I hope so," he said soberly. "Run along; I'll watch until you're inside." Pat darted across the strip of grass, turned at her door to blow a goodnight kiss to the Doctor, and slipped in. She tiptoed quietly to her room, slipped off her dress, and surveyed her long, slim legs in the mirror. "Why shouldn't he say they were beautiful?" she queried of the image. "I can't see any reason to get excited over a simple compliment like that." She made a face over her shoulder at the green Buddha above the fireplace. "And as for you, fat boy," she murmured, "I expect to see you wink at me tonight. And every night hereafter!" She prepared herself for slumber, slipped into the great bed. She had hardly closed her lids before the image of a leering face with terrible bloody eyes flamed out of memory and set her trembling and shuddering. 7 The Red Eyes Return "I suppose I really ought to meet your friends, Patricia," said Mrs. Lane, peering out of the window, "but they all seem to call when I'm not at home." "I'll have some of them call in February," said Pat. "You're not out as often in February." "Why do you say I'm not out as often in February?" demanded her mother. "I don't see what earthly difference the month makes." "There are fewer days in February," retorted Pat airily. "Facetious brat!" "So I've been told. You needn't worry, though, Mother; I'm sober, steady, and reliable, and if I weren't, Dr. Carl would see to it that my associates were." "Yes; Carl is a gem," observed her mother. "By the way, who's this Nicholas you're so enthusiastic about?" "He's a boy I met." "What's he like?" "Well, he speaks English and wears a hat." "Imp! Is he nice?" "That means is his family acceptable, doesn't it? He hasn't any family." Mrs. Lane shrugged her attractive shoulders. "You're a self-reliant sort, Patricia, and cool as iced lettuce, like your father. I don't doubt that you can manage your own affairs, and here comes Claude with the car." She gave the girl a hasty kiss. "Good-bye, and have a good time, as I'm sure I shan't with Bret Cutter in the game." Pat watched her mother's trim, amazingly youthful figure as she entered the car. More like a companion than a parent, she mused; she liked the independence her mother's attitude permitted her. "Better than being watched like a prize-winning puppy," she thought. "Maybe Dr. Carl as a father would have a detriment or two along with the advantages. He's a dear, and I'm mad about him, but he does lean to the nineteenth century as far as parental duties are concerned."