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FLAMING

YOUTH

“Low speed,” remarked Pat. “T wouldn’t think Cary Scott was specially high speed, though he’s a dear. You’ve been playing round with him quite a bit.” “Well, that can’t hurt me, can it?” said Pat, a little

impatiently, as one suspicious of criticism. No such notion was in the mind of Dee, who answered promptly: “No. Best thing in the world for you, I'd say. But do give Mark a run for his money this evening.” “Oh, very well! I don’t have to marry the bird, do I?” Dee laughed. “You might do worse. He’s got lots of money and you could manage him like a lamb.” “IT don’t want a lamb. I don’t want anything yet but to have a good time.”

“Shoot along and have it, then.” Thus it was that Cary Scott was mulcted of several expected dances with no other explanation than a whispered “I'll tell you why later,” which, however, left him not ill-content. Just before the bridal couple left he got his first private word with the busy maid-of-honour. They stood together on the tile of the loggia, now a bower of greenery and a narrow thoroughfare for the guests going outside to smoke. Pat’s first words were: “Oh, Cary; did you see Dee’s face?” “Yes.” He did not need to ask her when, “What did it mean?” “T don’t know. Nothing probably.”

“You know it did!? Her confidence in his understanding, her appeal to him in this, the most intimate of family matters, thrilled him with a new sense of their rapprochement, was stronger testimony to his claim upon her inner self than a thousand kisses. “You’re fond of Dee, aren’t

you?” she pursued. “I'd be fond of her anyway, aside from her being your