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FLAMING

YOUTH

have put it, and speeded up an already sufficient pace. Local eruptions followed. “All the old cats are squalling their heads off at me,” she complained to Osterhout. “What would you expect?” said the philosophical doctor. “Of course you’d take that side,” retorted the aggrieved Pat. “Why should they?” “For one item, the broken Vandegrift-Mercer engage ment.” “I didn’t do it!” disclaimed Pat. But she dimpled a little. “You’re popularly credited with having had a hand in it, not toesay a face.” “Don’t be coarse, Bobs. What right had Bess Vandegrift to be sticking her blotchy face between the curtains———” “What right had you to be kissing Bess’s best young feller?” “Liar yourself, Bobs! I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me.” “It’s a fine distinction. Maybe a shade too fine for Bess.” “I haven’t kissed a man,” declared Pat virtuously, “that is to say really kissed, since—well, never mind that,”

with hasty but belated discretion. “I didn’t want Harry to kiss me. Troo-woo-wooly, Bobs. Though I did suspect that he might get interesting and try... . She’s a sob, anyway.” “Then, there’s Stanley

Johnston——”

“All off. Tackles too hard!” said Pat. “And Mark Denby. You keep him rushing back and forth between here and Baltimore like a demented drummer,”

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