100
FLAMING
YOUTH
“She isn’t any man’s sister,” said Pat chokingly. Then he understood. “But they called her ‘Treechie,’ ” he said stupidly. “That’s one of my nicknames.” “My dear!” said Scott pityingly, at a loss for the moment in the face of her shamed and helpless fury. He laid his hand on hers. “Do you believe it? What they said?” she whispered. “No; no. “You do.
Of course not,” he answered soothingly. Anyway, it’s true.”
“Can you tell me who those fellows are?” he asked grimly. “T’ll find a way to stop their foul chatter.” “You can’t mix in it. What good would it do if you did half kill them?”? For she had read the formidable wrath in his face. “Besides,” she concluded sullenly, “I tell you it’s true.” “Why is it true, Pat?” he asked gently. “Because I’m a cheap little idiot. I never realised— I never knew men talked—that way—about girls.” “Men don't. Those were callow boys.” “Not all of them. The one that—that spoke about the play
- ? She stopped with her hand to her throat.
For a moment he studied her working face. “It’s hardly worth while, is it?” he said gravely. ‘You've come to the end of that phase, haven’t you? How old are you, Pat?”
“Eighteen.
Almost.
And I’ve been a terrible necker
ever since—since I began to be grown up. Most girls are.” “Are they? Why?” “T don’t know. ‘The boys sort of expect it,” she answered childishly.
“And it’s—it’s fun, in a way.”
She
wriggled like a very schoolgirl. “I got Billy away from Celia Bly that way. And now look at the damn thing!"
