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FLAMING

YOUTH

the manner which, to her unfailing delight, he used toward Pat as toward any of his older associates. “Con’s got a headache.” Cary Scott understood perfectly. This was subterfuge on Constance’s part. She was unready to face the issue. There had been a preamble between them on the previous evening; tacitly it was understood that this evening was to determine their future relations. And now she was shirking the crisis. Or was she merely playing the part of the “teaser,” drawing back the more to inflame his ardour—and perhaps her own? Of the two hypotheses Scott inclined to the former. It was more in consonance with her natural inertia of character. If she were in love with him it was not the kind of love which justified itself by daring, by taking the risks, by boldly facing sacrifice. Inexplicably he felt a quality of relief mingling

with his natural pique.

He was well satisfied to post-

pone, to let the decision go, to find relaxation in taking Pat to the concert. In the companionship of this eager, acute, vivid child he would breathe a clearer atmosphere, with something of a mental stimulus, a tingle in it, that which he most missed in his association with the married sister. All of this rapid cogitation was quite without

reflected effect upon his imperturbable manner as he said: “Tell Constance that I’m so sorry, won’t you? And that I appreciate her sending so delightful a substitute.” “Oh, she didn’t send me,” answered Pat composedly. “Tt’s all my own idea.” “A very good one,” grunted Osterhout. “Pat’s a connoisseur of music. But don’t keep my infant out too late, Scott.”

“All right, Pop,” returned Scott with mocking deference, as the older man left.

“How long can you wait?” demanded Pat of her escort.