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FLAMING

YOUTH

swered, summing up in that flash of criticism the essential falsity of the whole finishing school system. “I see. You know what a gamin is?” “Gamin?” She gave it the English pronunciation. “Oh, yes.” “Gamine is the feminine. But there’s a suggestion in it of something more delicate and fetching; of verve, of —of diablerie. As there is in you. It’s hard to say in English. I could describe you better in French.” “Could you? Then I'll learn French. And I think it’s divine of you,” said she, employing her favourite adjective, “to like my funny, flat figure.

You know,” she

added, sparkling at him mischievously, “you’re taking a chance on this concert thing.” ‘Any special chance other than that of being late?” “Oh, I shan’t be a minute, now

that I needn’t dress.

Yes; you’re taking a big chance. I’m an awful nut over music. It does all kinds of things to me. I’m quite capable of falling on your neck and bursting into sobs if they play anything I awfully like.” Beneath the lightness he sensed a real emotion. “Are you really so fond of it? Then I’m doubly glad that you’re going.” “T adore it. Really good music, I mean. Oh, I do wish I could play or sing or do something worth while.” “Have you ever tried?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Too lazy. If it wasn’t for the boring practice I might do something.” She raised her voice and sang the opening bars of the Hindu Sleep-Song. “The devil!” exclaimed Cary Scott. All the huskiness had passed from the voice, which issued from the full throat, pure, fresh-toned, deep and

eXortless.