FLAMING
YOUTH
105
“Poor old Con! I wonder what Cary thinks of it all.” “That’s what I’m afraid to think about.” “Then you are in love with him.
See here, Con; have
you been borrowing from him, too?” Constance’s exquisite, self-indulgent face was set and hard as she stared past her sister. “He’s paid a bill or two. I didn’t dare take them to father.” A soft whistle on a single, low note issued from Dee’s lips. ‘“That’s not in the book of rules.” “I know it. But he was so wonderful about it. You’d think that I was the one conferring the favour by taking his”—Constance gulped—“his money.” “Yes. Cary’s a thoroughbred. Whatever happens I can’t see that Freddie has any kick coming. Maquereau!” “What's that?” “Tasty French slang. The English is shorter and uglier. Con, how much are you in for?” “Too much.
. . . You marry money, Dee,” counselled
Constance fiercely. “It lasts. The other thing doesn’t.” “With me it doesn’t even begin. Then I can take Cary?” “Of course. I almost wish you’d never bring him back.” “It might be safer,” agreed the other. “I'll go and
wire him.” Dorrisdale knew the elaborate establishment of the Dangerfields, built out of war profits at the back of the golf course, as “The Private Athletic Club.” Everything about it was based upon sports, and the clique which frequented it was linked in a common bond of physical fitness, a willingness to bet any amount on anything, and capacity for hard drinking, It boasted expensive stables, an indoor and two outdoor tennis courts, a squash and racquets building, and, in the middle, the sixty-foot
