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FLAMING

YOUTH

“Better hate me than yourself. As you did that night at the club.” Tears welled up in her eyes. Her chin trembled and there was a soft, heart-thrilling catch in the huskiness of her voice, barely controlled enough to enunciate: “I don’t see why you’re so mean to me.” “Why, it’s a child!’ he exclaimed in mock self-reproach. “And I keep forgetting and treating it like a grown-up.” “That’s why I love to be with you. I want to be treated that way.” “Oh, no! You merely think you do. In reality you want to be petted and flattered and coddled and approved in all your cunning and silly little ways. That would be very easy. Only—it isn’t part of our compact.” With one of her mercurial changes she flashed a smile at him. “I’d nearly forgotten. You were to be my wise and guiding friend, weren’t you? Is that why you’re telling me that I’m restless and discontented?” “Well, aren’t you?” “Not more than the other girls.” “Ts that an answer?” “No. Yes, it is, too! Why should I be different?” “Because you’re you.” of an elderly but still popular song. “I like to have you say that. How do you think I’m different?” “Ah, that I can’t say. You see, I don’t know the girls of your age much.” “No; you’re always playing around with the married women,” she remarked calmly. ‘Well, you don’t miss much. They’re a lot of dimwits, the girls of my age here. No snap. If they can get a couple of rounds of bridge in the afternoon and a cocktail before dinner and a speedlimit whizz around the country in somebody’s car, or a
 * *Be-cause youre you,” 99> she sang gaily to the measure