FLAMING
YOUTH
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Linda.” Before she could go further with this informal presentation a circle of importunate claimants had swept about her. “flow do you do, Mr. Cary Scott?” said the lady before whom he found himself standing. “Mrs. Parker!” he ejaculated. Pat’s description of “old peach” was decidedly overdrawn as to the adjective, though not as to the noun. Aunt Linda was a slim, twinkling, rose-complexioned woman of thirty-five, gowned in a work of art and characterised by a quality of worldliness which, like Scott’s own, was a degree above mere smartness. She carried with her a breath of the greater outer world. Moreover she was, if not beautiful, extremely attractive to rors at by virtue of a sort of eternal fitness. “You’ve forgotten me,” she accused lightly. “Or at least, my name. I’m Miss Fentriss.” Not a muscle of Scott’s face testified to his surprise at this unexpected denial of a perfectly remembered name. “So stupia of me,” he confessed. “Won’t you try a round of this dance?” “No; I’m not dancing. But you may take me to some - cooler spot, if you know of any.” No sooner were they beyond earshot of the crowd than she said: “So you have not forgotten Taormina.” “T have forgotten whatever you wish me to forget.” “Always the perfection of tact,” she mocked. “It would be more flattering that you should remember. Though not too much.” “A cliff of beaten gold overlooking a sea of shimmering silver, a waft of perfume on the air, the charm of beauty
and mystery, both of which still endure after these seven years.” “Shall I dispel the mystery? I was Mrs. Parker then
