FLAMING
YOUTH
93
“That’s Billy Grant, Pat’s latest flame,” said Constance.
- “He’s got a wonder, hasn’t he!”
The youngster steadied himself to approach them. “Miss-zz Brow-owning,” he said politely, “could you tell me whe-ere Patiz?” “No, Billy. I haven’t seen her,” replied Constance promptly. “T’ve los’ her. And thissiz my dance wither. Secconextra.” Onward he lurched on his quest. ‘Do be a dear, Cary, and get Pat out of Billy’s way,” begged Constance. “Of course. Where can I find her?” ‘‘She’s coming through the further door now. Go and stop her. Tell her this is your dance and why.” Pat greeted the applicant with her quick, wide smile, “Yes, I know,” she said. “Billy is rather sunk. Come on. I’m all for this music.” She slipped into his arms, her body already swaying to the impulses of a halfbarbaric, half-languorous waltz... . “I would never have thought you’d dance so beautifully,” she presently hummed, setting the words to the consonance of the music. “Why?” he asked, amused. ‘Men of your age don’t care much about it. Bridge for them.” “Do I seem so stricken in years?” “Grandfather stuff!” She laughed up at him impudently. ‘You do and you don’t.” Ever alive to physical impressions she added: “You’re terribly strong, aren’t you?” “Rather. It was the fad to be in my set in Paris.” “Your
muscles are like steel; I like the feel of them.
No; they’re not like steel at all. That’s just one of the things people say because other people say them. They’re like rubber, hard, live rubber.”
