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FLAMING

YOUTH

217

between long silences and fits of febrile gaiety quite unlike her usual insouciant good humour. He thought that he caught a look of relief on her face when the men retired to the loggia with their cigars, since the new household tyrant had ruled against anything but cigarettes in the other parts of the house. The women took possession of the library and Pat established herself beside Dee, who sat on the lounge near the half-open door leading into the loggia.

“Who’s the angel-faced athlete I saw you skating with

last Saturday, Mary Delia Fentriss James?”

was Pat’s

opening remark. “Saturday? Where were you?” “On the bank in my runabout. You were some conspicuous pair! He’s as good as you are, almost.” “Were we so good?” said Dee, coolly. “Meaning that you don’t choose to tell.” “Wrong guess. His name is Wollaston.” “Not in my Social Register.” “A few people manage to exist without being.” “Don’t be catty, pettah!” “Don’t be an imbecile, baba!’

“All right. I’m off’n him as a subject for airy persiflage. But I will say that he’s a wonderful looking bird —for a skating instructor.” Dee laughed. “You didn’t expect to get a rise out of me that way, did you?” But there was a harsh quality in her mirth which made Pat thoughtful. “When are you going South?” she asked. “T don’t want to go till the first. T. Jameson wants to go next week. We'll probably go next week.” “Like that !”? commented Pat. “But why be bitter about a jaunt to the Sunny? I wish it was me. ... Give ear: what’s old Bobs growling about?”