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FLAMING

YOUTH

which she had on. She plucked at the buttons with hurried fingers, wriggled out of the garment which she kicked from her feet and left lying on the floor, tossed her corsets after it, and exhaled a long, luxurious “OQoooo-oofff !” of satisfaction and voluptuous relief.

Opening the door of her clothes-press, she rummaged for a moment and pulled out a long, sweeping robe, which she drew about her, moulding it to the boyish set of her shoulders and the woman’s depth and contour of her bosom. She caught up a cigarette, lighted a match, then, lapsing into thought, let it droop from her fingers until the scorching brought an angry “Damn!” of pain. She threw the cigarette after the expiring match. No; she wouldn’t

smoke, much

as her tense nerves demanded

it.

She would keep her mouth fresh and sweet for Cary’s first kiss. She ran down to him, putting on the far light in the hallway, so that only a dim glow invaded the conservatory-den. Scott stood at the window in an attitude of attention. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Listening.” “Music!

A violin.

Oh, I know.

It’s a visitor at the

Eastmans’, next door. He’s good. And how flawless of him to be playing just now. Open the window. Let’s hear it all.” He obeyed. She drew in to him. Her ready fingers sought his palm. “Want me to mix you a drink?” “No, dear.”

“That’s better,” she approved. “Though,” she added, with her old air of gaminerie, “it might go further and not get a call-down. What is it he’s playing?” “ “The Elégie.””