P. D. between dances, just _try_ to find her.

The same girl . . . deep in an atmosphere of jungle music and the
questioning of moral codes. Amory found it rather fascinating to feel
that any popular girl he met before eight he might quite possibly kiss
before twelve.

"Why on earth are we here?" he asked the girl with the green combs one
night as they sat in some one's limousine, outside the Country Club in
Louisville.

"I don't know. I'm just full of the devil."

"Let's be frank--we'll never see each other again. I wanted to come out
here with you because I thought you were the best-looking girl in sight.
You really don't care whether you ever see me again, do you?"

"No--but is this your line for every girl? What have I done to deserve
it?"

"And you didn't feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of the
things you said? You just wanted to be--"

"Oh, let's go in," she interrupted, "if you want to _analyze_. Let's not
_talk_ about it."

When the hand-knit, sleeveless jerseys were stylish, Amory, in a burst of
inspiration, named them "petting shirts." The name travelled from coast
to coast on the lips of parlor-snakes and P. D.'s.