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 FLAMING

YOUTH

163

“How hard?” “A whole hour, some days. Or pretty nearly.” “That is toil! Under whom?” “One of the teachers at school. She’s very good.” “A professional?” “She used to sing in a choir. She says,” Pat dropped her voice impressively, “there are lots of voices on the stage not as good as mine.” “Doubtless.” “I wish I knew what you mean when you say that, that funny way,” she said pathetically. “I think you’re awfully queer to-day, anyway.” Her manner changed from petulance to pleading. “Do you think T’ve got a terrible lot to learn before I could try?” “Try? What?” “Going on the stage.” “T think you’ve got everything to unlearn,” he said calmly. Silently she gazed at him. The tender upper curve of her lip quivered. She turned back to the piano, jangled a discord which was intended to be a sad and melting harmony, and told her little, feminine lie in a muffled voice: “And I did it all on your account, too.” “Were you going on the stage on my account?” Around she whisked again, jumped from the seat and went to him, her face alight. “That’s what I adore about you. You never let me put over any bunk. What makes . you so awfully clever about girls, Mr. Scott?” “Not clever at all,” he disclaimed. “I’m simply being

honest with you.

And,” he supplemented, “hoping that

you’re one of those rare human beings with whom can be honest successfully.”

“Oh, I am,” she averred fervently.

one

“But you simply