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FLAMING

YOUTH

swimming tank just completed. Sally Dangerfield, a bigeyed, softly rounded brunette whose air of rather amorous languor concealed a feline vitality and strength, had a penchant for small parties, many in a season. This opening tennis party of the season included but eight couples. Walter Dangerfield, robust, hairy, loud-voiced and generous of hospitality, announced to the arriving guests that there would be first and second prizes worth striving for, also that, while it was a long time beween sets, it would be a shorter period between drinks, in

proof of which he indicated tubs of ice housing bottles of the famous Dangerfield punch. The

intense,

unseasonable

heat

bred

an

immediate

thirst, appeasement of which enhanced the joyousness of the occasion if not the quality of the tennis. Thanks to a quality of comparative abstemiousness on the part of both, Dee and her partner won against a pair who were normally their betters. The prize was a magnum of champagne apiece, and that they should celebrate by opening it immediately was, of course, de rigueur in the Private Athletic Club. The swim which followed was signalised by the appearance, upon a specially constructed raft, of a “submarine cocktail” invented by the host for the occasion. By dinner time the party had accumulated what was universally regarded as a highly satisfactory start. Over the luxurious repast the heat settled like a steamy blanket.

It was too hot to talk, it was too hot to sing

(though several ambitious souls tried to pretend that it wasn’t), it was too hot to dance between courses, it was too hot to do anything but drink. There was a gasp of relief when the hostess announced that coffee would be served outside, and a groan of disappointment when a splash of lukewarm rain heralded a thunderstorm which