Patricia laughed merrily. She was a tiny thing, appearing to be no
more than twelve years old, although in reality she was sixteen. Her
hair was a decided red--not a beautiful "auburn," but really red--and
her round face was badly freckled. Her nose was too small and her
mouth too wide to be beautiful, but the girl's wonderful blue eyes
fully redeemed these faults and led the observer to forget all else
but their fascinations. They could really dance, these eyes, and send
out magnetic, scintillating sparks of joy and laughter that were
potent to draw a smile from the sourest visage they smiled upon.
Patricia was a favorite with all who knew her, but the big,
white-moustached Major Doyle, her father, positively worshipped her,
and let the girl rule him as her fancy dictated.
"Now, sir, you're fairly decent again," she said, after a few vigorous
scrubs. "So put on your hat and we'll go out to dinner."
They occupied two small rooms at the top of a respectable but
middle-class tenement building, and had to descend innumerable flights
of bare wooden stairs before they emerged upon a narrow street
thronged with people of all sorts and descriptions except those who
were too far removed from the atmosphere of Duggan street to know that
it existed.
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