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FLAMING
YOUTH
nets while the women retired to the squash court, designated as their dressing room. There they disrobed with feverish laughter and jerky bits of talk.
This adventure
had given a fillip to even their sated appetite for sensation. “Who'll go first?” asked one in the gloom. “Match for it,” came the answering suggestion. “Oh, piffle and likewise pish!” cut in Vicey Carson’s shrill giggle. “I'll be the goat. Put a dimmer on that
light, someone.” A moment later Dee heard her call at the end of the passage: “Anybody present in case I fall in?” Several male voices answered: “Stout sport!” ‘Who's the pioneer?” “Sally.” “No; it’s little Viccy.” “‘Shinny-on-your-own-side!’ called Mrs. Carson. “Listen for the splash. Come on, you girls!” “We're coming.” Two splashes almost simultaneous
echoed sharply against the bare walls, followed by others mingled with shrieks, laughter, chokings and gurglings. Dee, reluctant, found herself alone in the passage way. Like many women of unaroused temperament she preserved a sort of remote and proud consciousness of her body, a physical reticence. The gross implications of contact, the prurient stimulus to the imagination in what was going on in the pool, held her back. Yet she was conscious of some participation in the excitement, too; the lewd mob-psychology of that mixed group spurred her while it revolted her finer instincts. But it was her sportsmanship that finally urged her forward. After all, she had agreed to join. Backing out now would be pretty yellow. Her hand was fumbling along the open door when another burst of merriment
checked her.
“T’ve caught me a mermaid over the net.” ‘Reel her in, Bill.”
