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 FLAMING

YOUTH

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touched the area around them with little dabs of Mme. Lablanche’s Rose-skin. “I’m going to have one dance,” she decided, “if they send me to jail.” The back stairs and a side window gave her unobserved exit to the odorous shelter of a syringa. “Til wait until I can catch Bobs,” she ruminated.

“He’ll

dance with me—old bear! But first I'll do a little scouting.” She peeked into the big living room where most of the dancing was in progress. As was invariably the rule at Holiday Knoll, men held the superiority of numbers, and therefore, girls that of position. Every girl had a partner. To the ungrown waif outside of fairyland the dancers seemed ethereal beings, moving in a radiant and unattainable world. How beautifully the girls were dressed! How attractive the men looked! “I wish I was pretty,” mourned Pat. She thought forlornly of her blotchy skin. “I never will be, though.” Then she recalled the deep, eager lustre of her eyes as seen in the glass, and how one of the boys at school had once made awkward and admiring phrases about them. She had not liked that particular boy, but she was grateful for the phrases. Maybe if she paid more attention to herself she might come to be attractive like her lovely mother. No; that was too much to hope; never like her mother, nor like Constance, who was just then whirled

by in the arms of one of the New York guests, all aglow with languorous triumph, easily the beauty of the party. Perhaps like Dee. Lots of men were crazy about Dee. Would any man ever be crazy about her, wondered Pat. . . . Wouldn’t she look a smear if she did venture on the floor among all those human flowers? She left her window to prow! further.