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 FLAMING

YOUTH

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He laughed. “I’m very flattered.” “Don’t make fun of me,” pouted Pat. “I’m serious. Particularly about your having influence over me. Since our talk I’ve passed up all sorts of chances to have a flutter. I don’t believe I’ve kissed three boys, in all.” Despite himself Scott queried acidly: “And were they red or white kisses?” “Well, one of them might have had a dash of pink in it. No; I just said that to tease you,” she added impulsively. “I really have been boringly good. It isn’t too easy, either.” “Pat, why don’t you talk to Dr. Bobs about yourself?” “T will if you want me to,” said she submissively. “It would be a good thing, assuming that you would talk frankly.” ‘Where shall I begin? By telling him about us?” she inquired demurely. Upon this Scott’s inner commentary was, “You little devil!” Aloud he said composedly: “If you think it significant. But what I said was about yourself.” “Oh, I’m well enough,” said she carelessly. “Are you happy enough?” She gave him a startled glance. “Why should you think I’m not happy?” “T didn’t say I thought so. I simply asked you.” “Well,

I am.”

But there was a hint of defiance in her

tone. “And you do think I’m not.” “T think you’re restless and discontented.” “What makes you think that?” she asked, curiously, leaning over to him so that the warm curve of her arm pressed his. He glanced not at her but at her encroaching shoulder. “Because of just that sort of thing.” She snatched her arm away. “I hate you!”