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FLAMING

YOUTH

“No; you oughtn’t.” “Are you sorry I did?” He looked away from her into the wind-swept night. “Are you angry because I did?” “TI love you,” he burst out. “God, how I love you!” She laughed softly. Her hand slid down his arm, slasped for a moment the wrist in which his pulses leapt madly to her touch, wreathed itself, cool and strong and smooth, around his palm. “And I love you,” she half-

whispered gaily. “I’m terribly in love with you”—a pause of deliberate intent—“to-night. Because you’ve

been away from me so long.” “Ah, yes, to-night!” He made no effort to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“But, to-morrow

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“To-night’s to-night,” she broke in happily. “We’ve got lots of it to ourselves. It’s only nine o’clock. I broke away early on purpose.” Arrested by the look on his face, she added with exasperation and protest: “Cary! You’re not going to play propriety to-night? When we haven’t seen each other for so long?” She shook the gleamy mist of her hair about her face, gave a gnomish bend and twist to body and neck and peered sidelong at him from out the tangle. Suddenly her face darted upward. Her mouth met his in a grotesque parody of a passion-laden kiss.

“Oh, bad bunny!” she admonished herself in mock reproach. He stopped, gazing at her from beneath bent brows. “You hated that, didn’t you?” she said. Ves.”

‘Because it wasn’t real?” “Because it was mockery.” “Petite gamine stuff. But I’m not petite gamine to-