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FLAMING YOUTH

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rival, she planned to keep the early afternoon free Watchful at her window, on pretence of taking a nap, — she saw his car come up the drive and hurried down to—

the music room where she seated herself at the piano and began to strum casually, taking up the accompaniment of

a song as he entered the front door.

It was sketchy and

sloppy, that accompaniment, the performance of a jerry trained hand, but it served as background to the fresh,

deep, unforgotten voice, which met his ears and checked his Footatent. “Tf love were what the rose is

And you were lke the leaf.”

She completed woman’s

sense,

the stanza, of every

conscious, through her

slow step that brought

him

nearer to her. All the falsity of method, the cheap trickery of intonation which had been coached into her for the song, could not wholly devitalise the velvety passion of the voice. As the final word died away she whirled about. “Mr. Scott! I didn't know you were there.” “Didn*t you?” He smiled down into her eyes with that quietly ironic look of his which seemed te mock at himself as much as at that to which it was directed, tak-

ing her outstretched hand. But—didn’t you?”

“I’m glad to see you, Pat.

“You know I did,” she confessed. you. Did you like it?”

“I was singing at

“Yes.”

Unsated of her lust for praise, she persisted: you think my lessons have done me good?”

“Don’t

“Have you been taking lessons?” “Certainly I have. You told me you wanted me te

I’ve been working ferribly hard.”