FLAMING
YOUTH
4S
of Bacardi.” She sealed her letter with a thump and tossed it into a silver-wicker basket. “Keep your rum,” said Dee with an effect of disdainful connoisseurship. “It gets me nothing but perspiration and a bum eye next day! Not even the right kind of kick. . . . So your Princeton laddie fed Pat some of the party fluid. Did it make her sick?” “No;
it didn’t make her sick,” answered
a resentful
voice, all on one level tone. Pat entered by the rear door. “Been listening in?” inquired Constance amiably. “T have not. Wouldn’t waste my time,” declared the infant of the family. She cast an eye upon the journal which her sister had laid aside. ‘“What’s in T.T. this week? Anything rich?”
“Rapidly growing to womanhood,” observed Constance to Dee in a tone of mock admiration. “Talk-party, I suppose,” said the intruder. ‘Don’t let me interrupt.” She strolled purposelessly over to the desk, glanced in the letter box and picked up the letter. “What are you writing to Warren Graves about?” she demanded. “Put that letter back,” said Constance.
“I’m going to look,” declared Pat uncertainly. Her statement was followed by a yell of pain. The letter fell, inviolate, to the floor as Dee, who had leapt upon her with the swiftness and precision of a young panther, tortured her arms backward. “If you try to kick V’ll break you in two,” muttered the athlete. “Let go!
I won’t,” wailed Pat, who knew and dreaded
the other’s strength. Released, she massaged her aching elbows.
“Dirty you,
