Miss Wyatt blinked once or twice. This question out of its context was not illuminating. It was a part of her philosophy, however, never to flunk flat; she always crawled. "Well," she began with an air of profound deliberation, "that question might be considered in two ways, either from an artistic or a philosophic standpoint." This sounded promising, and the instructor smiled encouragingly. "Yes?" she said. "And yet," continued Patty, after still profounder deliberation, "I think the same reason will be found to be the ultimate explanation of both." The instructor might have inquired, "Both what?" but she refrained and merely waited. Patty thought she had done enough, but she plunged on desperately: "In spite of his really deep philosophy we notice a certain--one might almost say _dash_ about his poetry, and a lack of--er--meditation which I should attribute to his immaturity and his a--rather wild life. If he had lived longer I think he might have overcome it in time." The class looked dazed, and the corners of the instructor's mouth twitched. "It is certainly an interesting point of view, Miss Wyatt, and, as far as I know, entirely original." As they were crowding out at the end of the recitation Priscilla pounced upon Patty. "What on earth were you saying about Wordsworth's youth and immaturity?" she demanded. "The man lived to be over eighty, and composed a poem with his last gasp." "Wordsworth? I was talking about Shelley." "Well, the class wasn't." "How should I know?" Patty demanded indignantly. "She said 'our author,' and I avoided specific details as long as I could." "Oh, Patty, Patty! and you said he was wild--the lamblike Wordsworth!" "What were you laughing at, anyway?" demanded Georgie. Patty smiled again. "Why, _this_" she said, unfolding the Hotel A---- letter. "It's from an Englishman, Mr. Todhunter, some one my father discovered last summer and invited out to stay with us for a few days. I'd forgotten all about him, and here he writes to know whether and when he may call, and, if so, will it be convenient for him to come to-night. That's a comprehensive sentence, isn't it? His train gets in at half-past five and he'll be out about six." "He isn't going to take any chances," said Priscilla. "No," said Patty; "but I don't mind. I invited him to come out to dinner some night, though I'd forgotten it. He's really very nice, and, in spite of what the funny papers say about Englishmen, quite entertaining." "Intentionally or unintentionally?" inquired Georgie. "Both," said Patty. "What's he doing in America?" asked Priscilla. "Not writing a book on the American Girl, I hope." "Not quite as bad as that," said Patty. "He's corresponding for a newspaper, though." She smiled dreamily. "He's very curious about college." "Patty, I _hope_ you were not guilty of trying to make an Englishman, a guest in your father's house, believe any of your absurd fabrications!"