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 FLAMING

YOUTH

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Pat knew that she ought not to go; there were a dozen important errands to be done. But: “Oh, very well,” she said. Duties could wait. Pleasure was something you had to grab before it got away from you. The philosophy of the flapper. At the “motion picture palace” they got box seats, the chairs suggestively close together. She wondered whether he would try to hold her hand; also whether she would let him if he did. Probably she would; there was no harm in that, and it gave a pleasant sense of companionship. Most of the boys with whom she went to the theatre or movies expected it. Apparently Warren Graves didn’t. He made no move in that direction. Piqued a little, nevertheless Pat liked him the better for

it. Monty might perhaps have objected if he knew. And, with a start, she discovered that only just then had she thought of Monty Standish. He had been, for the time, quite forgotten in the interest of a more enlivening and demanding association. What the “serial” of the play was, Pat could hardly have told; “some hurrah about the West,” she informed

T. Jameson James afterward. At the conclusion of it there came a “news feature,” showing scenes about the

building where the League of Nations session was being held.

Various noted personages

appeared, walked with

the knee-slung, unnatural stalk of the screen across the space, and vanished. Then it was as if a blinding flash had been projected from the square. An unforgettable figure stood out amidst the crowd, the face turned toward her, the eyes, with the faint ironic lift of the brows, look-

ing down into her soul, arousing a tumult and a throbbing which left her hardly breath enough to gasp out: “Cary Scott!” Do you know Scott?” asked her escort interestedly.