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FLAMING

YOUTH

startled to see her father’s car drawn up opposite a pleasant looking apartment house on a quiet side street. At three-thirty in the afternoon! The truth leapt to her mind. Profusely blooming flowers made beautiful the third floor window ledge; there, Pat decided, was the nest of the bird. Fearing that her father might emerge a find her, she hastened away. On the following morning, full of delightful tremors and keen anticipations—for this would be something, indeed, to tell the girls—she returned and pressed the third button in the entry. The light click of the release almost sent her scuttling out, but she gathered her resolution, composed a demure face for herself, and mounted

the stairs. In the top hallway stood a slim, tailor-made woman with glasses pushed up on her forehead. Pat at once made up her mind that she was attractive in an alert, bird-like way.

“Whom are you looking for?” asked the woman pleasantly. Pat liked her voice. “Does Mrs. Fentriss live here?” “Who?” said the woman in a tone which made Pat regret that she had chosen that particular form of opening. Pat faltered out the enquiry again, not knowing what else to do. The other’s brown and dancing eyes grew formidably cold. “Why do you ask for Mrs. Fentriss?” “T thought this was where she lived.” “There is no Mrs. Fentriss here.” “Perhaps I’ve got the wrong apartment.” “No. I think you have the right one. Who are you?” Entire frankness appeared to the intruder the method of sense and safety. “I’m Pat. Patricia Fentriss.” “I thought so. By what right do you come here?”