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FLAMING

YOUTH

door was thrown open, and Mary Delia Fentriss swung in upon them. “Hello, mother!” she said. “Hail, Lord Roberts! What’s the summons?” Her bearing attested poise, careless self-confidence, and

a brusque and ready good humour. She was tall, rounded, supple, browned, redolent of physical expression. At first sight one knew that here was a girl whose body would exhale freshness, whose lips would be cool, whose breath would be sweet, whose voice would be even, whose senses and nerves would be controlled. A student of humankind might have appreciated in her the unafraid honesty and directness which so often go with the consciousness of physical strength, in women as well as men. Her nickname in the family was Candida. She was not beautiful; not even pretty, by strict standards. But there was about her a sort of careless splendour. “Been playing golf?” asked her mother. “Yes. Cantered in with a forty-seven.”

“Nice going! How would you like to marry Bob?” Neither the expression nor the attitude of the girl altered, but her cool and thoughtful eyes turned upon Osterhout. “Has his lordship been making proposals for me?” “No; I haven’t!” barked the gentleman in the case. “Watson, the strait-jacket! He’s growing violent.” “It was wholly my idea,” proffered Mona. “J thought Bobs was your special property. Why mark him down? It isn’t bargain day.” “He’s a fairly good bargain, though,” pointed out her mother. “Don’t mind me if you want to discuss my good points,” said Osterhout, lighting a cigarette and seating himself upon the window sill.