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FLAMING

YOUTH

of-fact lover who would sometimes grow quite petulant over her perfunctory responses to his good-humoured ineffectualities of companionship. Once when he rallied her upon this she burst into angry tears and snapped out: “I’m so dam’ worn with pififle and prattle,” and darted upstairs. But at their next meeting she was so prettily contrite and yielding that his vanity was quite soothed. As the wedding day drew near, Pat dismissed whatever doubts she may have had, in the excitement of fitting-out. It was on one of these shopping expeditions, when she had gone into town by train, her runabout having suffered an attack of nervous breakdown, that, crossing the station plaza she came face to face with an old but unforgotten acquaintance. She saw his keen pleasant face light up, could read in his half-dismayed expression the struggle to remember exactly who she was, and went to him, holding out her hand:

  • You’ve forgotten me, Mr. Warren Graves.”

He

took

the hand.

“Indeed,

I haven’t!

It’s Pat.

Little Pat.” She nodded. “Better than I gave you credit for.” “Ym awfully sorry, but I have forgotten the rest

of it.” “Pat?ll do,” she laughed. “No; but let me think back.” “Want any help?” “It was a party, somewhere about here. A corking party. Id had one drink that I remember and some more that I don’t. A funny, delightful kiddie was floating around outside like Cinderella. She wouldn’t go in and dance with me, but—let me think

me

“TI wouldn’t think too far,” urged Pat, her face tinged with pink.

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