FLAMING
YOUTH
281
‘Two tiny spots of reddish flame shone in the wine-dark eyes. Pat decided that she was very attractive. “Please don’t be angry with me.” “You’re hardly here as an emissary of the family, I suppose.” “No. I—I just came.” “In that case hadn’t you better just go again?” “If you tell me to,” said Pat, downcast and humble. The other hesitated. “I can’t conceive what you mean by this visit,” she said with severity, into which, however,
had crept a mitigating quality. “Was it just vulgar curiosity?”” Pat nodded so vigorously that her hair flicked forward about her face like wind-whipped silk ribbons. “You’re frank, at any rate. I like that.” Abruptly she stepped back. “‘As you’re here, come in.” Pat obeyed. “You’re awfully good to let me.” “Am I? That remains to be seen.” She led the way to an airy, daintily furnished front room, a conspicuous feature of which was a big arm chair with a drawing board across the arms. “What’s that?” asked Pat with lively curiosity. “My work.” “Oh! Are you an artist?” “Of a sort. I make fashion drawings.” “How diverting!” Pat was recovering herself. “Can’t you go on working while we talk?” “Are we going to talk?” The corners of the firm mouth crinkled up, a dimple affirmed its existence, the brown eyes twinkled, and Pat incontinently and most improperly fell in love with her hostess. “J think you’re too delightful!” “T can be quite otherwise, on occasion—to impertinent
people.”
