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FLAMING

YOUTH

He got out, bared his head, and helped her to alight

‘At seven o’clock then,” she said. “Shall I get some people in? Who do you want to see?” “No

one

else in the world,”

he answered

with such

conviction that she smiled up at him. “You are a dear, Cary. I can’t tell you how much we’ve missed you. Pat almost went into mourning.” She did not see his expression change, ever so slightly, as he turned away. Business of his own kept Scott busy most of the afternoon. When he reached the club he found Jameson James waiting to motor him out. James was amiable in his stiff and carefully measured way. Scott went to his room immediately upon their arrival, bathed,

dressed, drank

the preliminary

cocktail

whieb

Dee had mixed with her own hands and sent up to him, and had started to go downstairs when he stopped, his breath piling up, as it were, in his throat from an emotien half dismay, half rapture. The unforgettable, luscious huskiness of a voice floated up from below. “Dee; where are you? Do come and hook this last howk forme. I can’t get the dam’ thing to stay.”

He took a step forward. Pat looked up. “Ch, Mist-er Scott!” she crowed. “It’s too flawless to see you again. I thought you were never coming back.”