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FLAMING

YOUTH

At once the musician crossed to her, which was exactly what she had intended. “You don’t like music,” he accused, glowering. “T love it,” retorted Pat.

“Then you don’t like my music.” “Better than your manners.”

“T care nothing for manners.

I am not a society

puppet.”

“If you were, perhaps you would have waited to be presented.” “TI am Leo Stenak,” said he impressively. If not unduly impressed, Pat was at least interested. She remembered the name from having heard Cary Scott speak of a youthful violinist named Stenak who had appeared at a Red Cross concert the year before and for whom he had predicted a real career, “if he can get over his cubbish egotism and self-satisfaction.” “T’ve heard of you,” she remarked. “The whole world will hear of me presently,” he replied positively. ‘Where did you hear?” “From a friend of mine, Cary Scott.” Stenak searched his memory. “I never heard of him. An amateur?” “Yes.” “Amateurs don’t count,” was his superb pronouncement.

“Any friend of mine counts,” said Pat coldly, and turned her back upon him. He flounced away exactly like a disgruntled schoolgirl. “Don’t mind Leo, Pat,” said her hostess, coming over to her with a smile of amusement. “He’s a spoiled child; almost as much spoiled as you are.” “JT don’t mind him,” returned the girl equably, but inside she was tingling with the sense of combat and of the