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FLAMING

YOUTH

of the little conservatory.

59

Thorpe wondered what he

could find to talk to this kid about. “Engine completely stalled,” he thought ruefully. On her part, Patricia experienced a sense of dismal vacancy. What was there in her mental repertoire to interest this worldly collegian? The memory of the party at which she had seen him gambling came to mind as a hopeful bridge over the widening conversational chasm. “Been winning much lately?” she asked brightly. “Winning?” He looked puzzled. “At what?” “Craps. I heard you stung the crowd for a hundred dollars at our party.” He was flattered and lofty. “Oh, I did pretty well. Where’d you hear about it? You weren’t at the party.” “Not

for long,”

confessed

Pat.

“But

I was

among

those present for a little while.” Connection of ideas recalled to her Warren Graves and his light-hearted allure. She wished he were beside her on the settee instead of Selden. She could almost hear his voice, bantering and tender, “Sweetie,”

and feel the

warm pressure of his arm. With him there would have been no anxious necessity of searching for topics of conversation, whereas with Selden Why not experiment a little, she thought, daringly. She let her hand slip carelessly from her lap to her side. It came into touch with

his.

The contact gave her a shock as unexpected as it

was painful.

She had failed to notice that he held a

lighted cigarette. “Ouch!”

said

Pat,

and

licked

the wounded

knuckle

with a sharp, pink tongue like a young animal’s. “Let’s see,” said the youth. He took her hand, glanced at it, and set his lips to the reddened skin cavalierly enough. “That better?” he asked.