SER7 1928
ey rst’ Anernational |
PERIODICAL ROOMS GENERAL LIGRARY INTV. OF MICH
@
t Beginning — An Arresting
NEW NOVEL by 7 REX BEACH )
THE KARPEN NAMEPLATE MARKS FURNITURE OF INTRINSIC WORTH
The Salem Room by Edgar W. Jenney. Illustrating Karpen pieces: Wing Chair, 216— Barrel Chair, 217— Open Arm Chair, 218.
*
(Mail this coupon for the New Booklet “Beautiful Interiors”
Tells how to plan interiors, know periods, choose color schemes, select fabrics, place furniture. Illustrated in color. By able decora- tor Edgar W. Jenney. Mail coupon now with ten cents for mailing costs to S. Kar- pen & Bros.,801 S. Wabash Ave., Chicago; 37th and Broadway, New York; or Huntington Park, P. O. Box O, Los Angeles, Calif.
CITY AND STATE
FROM KARPEN STUDIOS COMES STYLE gees fi oa that Give eiceteces to AR cout
N international exposi- tion of the arts is held
in New York and admiring throngs crowd thickest about the Karpen exhibit. A noted decorator, creat- ing a room to illustrate an article on the treatment of interiors, chooses Karpen
pieces for the setting. Wherever furniture de- sign is the topic, tribute is paid to the Karpen studios. For from them comes the fashion in fur- nishings just as the vogue
in gowns begins in the Paris Salons of Patou and Poiret. With this essential difference: Karpen prices, alwaysreasonable and with- in reach of every purse, make it possible for every home to have interiors of distinction and personality.
Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for October, 1928
KREISLER .. . ELMAN . . . HEIFETZ. A violisi, quivering with a thousand varied emotions that transcend words. Swiftly your surroundings vanish. You see a black Hungarian forest. Brooding pines look down on a gypsy fire, whose jagged flames silhouette the wild grace of a Romany dance. Show- ers of notes—furious as sparks—whirl into the night: You are at the concert—in your own home!+s++ So realistic, so lifelike, is reproduction through the Orthophonic Victrola, the artist seems to stand there before you. Whatever the season, this versatile instrument brings you and your friends the best of the world’s music—with all the encores you wish. ¢*+* Only when you’ve heard, it, can you appreciate its per- formance. Arrange now for a demonstration in your home. VICTOR TALKING MACHINE COMPANY, CAMDEN, NEW’ JERSEY, U. S. A.
The New Orthophonic
Model Nine-sixteen. Vic-
tor adjustable-volume
Electrola combined with
Radiola 18 in an exquisite
cabinet. All-electric. List price, $750.
ot
Next Month— A Novel ofthe Days of @hristopher Golumbus
by BLASCO IBANEZ
—the Story which the distinguished
Spaniard completed just before his Death
—~ VOL. LXXXV NO.4
Hearst’ International
combined with
Contents of osmopolitan for October, r928
Haste Makes Waste by Irvin S. Cobb
Illustrations by C. D. Williems
4 Serials
Son of the Gods by Rex Beach
Tllustrations by Rico Tomaso
Enter Sir John by Clemence Dane
and Helen Simpson Illustrations by Sydney Seymour-Lucas
Lily Christine by Michael Arlen Illustrations by H. R. Ballinger Dr. Artz
by Robert Hichens
Illustrations by W. Smithson Broadhead
12 Short Stories
by Fannie Hurst Illustrations by Henry Raleigh
Sissy
He Learned about Women from Him
by Gouverneur Morris Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg
Company for Gertrude by P. G. Wodehouse
Illustrations by O. F. Howard
The Song of the Bee by Peter B. Kyne
Illustrations by Frank Hoffman and G. C. Condon
Monkey House by Kathleen Norris Illustrations by Charles D. Mitchell The Skeleton at the Feast by Louis Bromfield Illustrations by Marshall Frantz Sophisticated Stuff by Adelaide Humphries
Illustrations by R. F. Schabelitz
32 36
40 50 54
58
64
Most Men Are by Royal Brown
Illustrations by John LaGatta
Delayed Fuse by Elliott White Springs
Illustrations by G. Patrick Nelson
Call the Doctor by Faith Baldwin
Illustrations by W. E. Heitland
A Soldier of Lincoln’s by Capt. John W. Thomason, Jr.
Illustrations by The Author
7 Features
On My Last Day by O. O. McIntyre
Old Love Letters by Charles Dana Gibson
Marriage by His Excellency Benito Mussolini
The Misled Mannequin by Fish
What About Your Child? by John B. Watson
Manuscripts Found in an Editor’s Drawer by Bruno Lessing
The After-Dinner Speech by Gluyas Williams
Cover Design by Harrison Fisher
Published monthly by the INTERNATIONAL MaGazine CoMPaNy, INc., 57th Street at Eighth Avenue, New York City.
Ray Lone, o-THomas J. WHITE, ArtHurR S. Moore, Austin W. CrarK, President. o Vice-President. . Treasurer. Secretary. Copyright, 1928, by International Magazine Company, Inc. (Hearst’s International and Cosmopolitan Magazine). All rights reserved under terms of the Fourth American International Convention of Artistic and Literary Copyright. 35 cents a copy; subscription price, United States and possessions, $3.00 a year; Canada, $3.50; Foreign, $4.00. All subscriptions are payable in advance. Unless otherwise directed we begin all subscriptions with the current issue. When sending in your renewal, please give us four weeks’ notice. When changing an address give the old address as well as the new and allow five weeks for the first copy to reach you. Entered as second-class matter at the Post Office, New York, New York, under the act of March 3, 1879; additional entry at Atlanta, Ga.; Boston, Mass.; Chicago, Ill.; Harrisburg, Pa.; Kansas City, Mo.; Los Angeles, Cal.; Minneapolis, Minn.; San Francisco, Cal.; Syracuse, N. Y.; Seattle, Wash.; Pittsburgh. Pa.; Cleveland, 0. Entered as second-class matter at the Post Office Department, Canada. Manuscripts must be typewritten and accom- panied by return postage. They will be handled with care, but this magazine assumes no responsibility for their safety.
XXXV NO 4
1928
”
‘Own 82 ings %&% lwin 9 , Jr. 98 tyre 21 son 22 lini 44 fish 62 ‘son 76 awer
sing 94 ams 96 ee s vest
a
Atlanta,
| accom-
OCTOBER, Hearst’ International RAY LONG,
combined with
osmopolitan —
By 2. 2. McIntyre
On My : i
E SAT in a hospital room on upper Fifth Avenue in the graying twilight. Shadows were forming queer whorls and arabesques over Central Park. That day, in the ripeness of splendid vigor, my friend had been told a dangerous surgical operation was im- mediately imperative. At nine the following morning he was to face his zero-hour. I had been with him in the afternoon as a grim witness to a few last-minute On the changes in his will. He had bade
rode high as I walked aimlessly in the direction of my hotel. I could not escape the reverie of imagining myself one whose liie was to be crowded into another fleeting twenty-four hours. What would I do?
Most of us dodge such gloomy forebodings. To the average healthy human being, Death is always faraway. Turning west- ward into brilliantly lighted Broadway, with its eager hun-
Last Day ger for life and oar, the thought of Death seemed as
his young wife a cheery farewell By EDGAR A. GUEST much folly as the pleasures all
and over the telephone his four- year-old son added a touch of tragic
about. Yet in a quiet room only a
humor with: ““Good night, Daddy. With aid on 1 ae few blocks away my friend, Have a good time.” ith one more day to gisigg Pets Ey Sey alone save for the faint tick For many, sane reasoning has I wonder what great task I’d work upon. of a gaunt clock, was in the stripped Death of much of its Granted full strength for those fast fleeting fringe of the great shadow. awiulness. It is as the gentle h Had I one more day to live, opening and closing of a door situa I reflected, and the courage to through which we pass to a fuller I wonder on what deeds I’d spend my powers. carry on without whimpering
realization of Life. But to the majority it remains the King of Terrors, and in the gathering dusk
The fancy comes that I should run to see
there were many of whom I should like to ask forgiveness for intentional and uninten-
it seemed mockingly near. The countless friends who have been kind tional hurts.
Conversation had reached that to me, monosyllabic stage of almost As [SHE nature of mankind is frozen silence. Our friendship had And I should bid the while I rushed along, ir seek forgiveness in final been firm through years of fair To beg another’s pardon for some wrong. hours. weather and foul and there was It was the last despairing much each of us wanted to say. I think I’d waste no time on selfish deeds cry of the Master. And it is Instead we became suddenly in- B se a q probable that only on the articulate. I gazed out the win- ut only labor for my spirits needs. brink of eternity most of us dow at the few faint pin-pricks of As one about to journey far away become conscious how silly be Good-by to all I’ve known I’d want to say. and useless hate is.
His eyes fell on a newspaper sprawling across the bed and I
On my last day I should like to clasp the hand of every per-
heard the rasping of tearing paper. I’d have no vain illusions then of fame, son who has helped me over d removed a_ syndicated I’d see how cheap are things men strive to the rough spots. In the hurry
poem entitled, oddly enough, “On 1a: of every-day life there is a rude
the Last Day” which philoso- uses casualness in our attitude to-
Phized on the problem of having For that last day allowed on earth to me ward genuine friendship.
one more day to live. I'd be the man I’ve often wished to be. I should like to recall the
He handed it to me with a sly
many little acts of selfishness
smile. I knew him too well not (Copyright, 1928, Edgar A. Guest.) toward those so near and dear
to realize some of the bravado of the day was feigned. Nobody I
ve ever known loved life so much and the import of the poem touched me as a clammy chill from a tomb.
That might furnish you with the idea for an article some day, he ventured but I knew his motive was not that. It was
} subtle method of conveying to me something he was not quite able to say. It might be his last day in this world. That it wasn’t, he had no way of knowing.
And so in the brusk manner men employ to choke off the Suspicion of tears or display of sentimentality we said good-by awkwardly without even shaking hands.
ith Avenue was in the full beauty of a glorious moon that
to me. I should like to blot out useless falsehoods that brought me only misery.
What a priccless sense of peace, as the shadows fall, to be con- scious of having tried to give the world as much happiness as it had given to me! To feel I had never taken the slightest ad- vantage of friend or foe and that my life had been an open book that all might read.
Such idealistic thoughts perhaps sound mawkish to those in the full bloom of excellent health, yet given one day to live I am certain they are the sort that come to us all.
Indeed, on the final day I think my greatest regret would be that I had fallen so far short of being the kind of son my mother
wished me to be. a
Seta Sail! Vi}
Gas 1 NSN \ CESSES SSS
SS S33 eee = SSS —— ee ~
IQ N VSS
SS
0 it YY 40 TAZ
a a .
y EQNS 3 WSs WN
Bass
‘ a eT - YAS ae ere RENN — eS en ee eee ee sae brquameantgee guy ay
WSSSReS SS WANS a SNS RATAN REE : SSS SSS SD
PAE WANS Se Rw. RA Se ee =—— =
SS Se
a
MSS SQ isa SSS SSS SSS
DANA inn
|
S IB SON =
| | iH ! I M2, Hy =| 1 #
Any)
"9 6 eee 6 ee ——Soo —<——— tit ALE tr: QoS rea: = es Seen. WSSkkcateneee —— ———s===sae = we SaaS — |]
wii
Illustrations by Rico Tomaso
ne
on Mh of th
“Three things are universally acknowledged to be honorable: nobility, age and virtue. In the courts, nobility holds first place, in the villages age. Neither is equal to virtue.”
T WAS a warm evening in April. A week of sunshine had caused the first crinkled leaves to unfold; lawns and borders were richly green, crocuses were in bloom and the forsythia bushes were turning into spraying fountains of gold. Spring
provokes a jocund excitement all its own: the marvel of rising sap, of swelling buds, of tender yet fiercely growing things awakens ardors, yearnings peculiar to that season of the year.
Sam Lee stood at the open window of his apartment overlook- ing the park, and the very fact that the window stood open gave him a feeling of freedom which amounted almost to intoxication. He was restless, eager, dissatisfied, elated: he debated irresolutely with himself whether to yield to the formless urge within him and ask Moy to fetch his polo coat, or to obey his conscience and call for his lounging-robe. His notes on today’s lectures needed elaboration, but—it was spring; a gay rebellion had broken out in him, a thousand mischievous tongues were whispering in his ears, his thoughts were as unruly as wild horses. Who was it who defined a college lecture as a process by which the contents of a professor’s notebook are transferred by mechanical means to a student’s notebook without passing through the mind of either? No matter, it was a good definition and particularly true at this season of warm sap and bursting buds.
There was his brand-new Hispano-Suiza standing at the curb below, positively rearing to go somewhere, anywhere, out into the fragrant evening. Sam could see it gleaming through the half- clothed branches of the elms, its side-lights glowing. It was desert sand in color, striped with white and upholstered in light leather—a “‘special job’? that had awakened the envy of every 24
An 3 z
Gods
undergraduate at Eastern. People invariably stopped to admire it and at this moment Sam could make out a group of dusky figures on the sidewalk near the car. He could hear their voices. Girls’ voices! Laughter! Throaty exclamations!
Spring, he told himself, is a frame of mind. Good Lord! The idea of wasting time on “extensions of the binomial theorem” when one’s mind is all itchy and when one’s body is crawling with desires!
The telephone tinkled discreetly, then came Moy’s soft Allo!’ A moment and he entered the living-room, bowed and announced, ‘‘Mister Spuggum calling you, sir.’ Moy was a Korean: the simplest English names were baffling to him, he dis- trusted one and all and assumed no responsibility whatever for those that he was forced to repeat.
Re went into the hall, took the instrument and spoke.
“Hello, Sam!’’ came a cheerful voice. ‘“This is Spud Gorham. How’s every little thing?”’
“Fine, thank you.”
“Are you working?”
“Not—yet. I was just getting ready——”’
“Say! There’s some sculduggery afoot: I’m downstairs with Kicker and three does. He and I were on our way up to your place to borrow a fresh set of money when we startled these fawns. One of ’em’s a pal of Kicker’s. They’re outside now petting your petting wagon. You’d better come down: we found a moth stamping around on it. They’ll ruin the paint—I mean those moths.”
Sam laughed and framed a pleasant comment but Spud talked through his words:
“It’s too nice a night for the movies and anyhow Kicker and I are down to our last pair of cigarets. You sound like a fellow
to admire of dusky ir voices.
rd! The theorem” crawling
»y’s soft wed and yy was a a, he dis- tever for
Gorham.
uirs with to your se fawns. ing your a moth an those
d talked
*ker and a fellow
GWhat delighted Alice above all when she visited Sam's apartment was to have him perform on a slim silver flageolet, which gave forth flute-like notes.
who'd enjoy taking us all for a ride. Girls and everything. Am right? . . . Think of it, Sam: we couldn’t make a borrow in
front of them! You’ll save money by going . . . Aw, come on! ey’re nice Janes. They won’t stick gum under the seats.” There was a moment of silence before Sam inquired: “Are
you sure it would be—all right?”
. Certainly!” Mr. Gorham spoke with heartiness. ‘Abso-
tively oh kay! It’ll be a polite expedition in search of scientific
Knowledge and no parking whatever. They'll have to dock
early. Make it snappy, Sam, before they change their alleged minds.”’
Sam. Lee called for his polo coat and a few moments later he ran down the steps of the apartment - house and joined the group on the sidewalk. He was greeted enthusiastically by Spud Gorham and Kicker Wade, who in- troduced him with something of a theatri- cal flourish to their three companions. The latter were no little impressed at meeting the owner of a fifteen- thousand - dollar car, and Sam judged that Spud and Kicker must have told them who and what he was, for his arrival created quite a flutter.
It was dark out here at the curb, features were suggested rather than revealed, but he could see that these young women were tastefully dressed anc as pleasing in appear ance as girls need to be nowadays. There werc more than three thou- sand students enrolled at Eastern; neverthe- less Sam knew most of them by sight, but this trio was strange to him; he assumed, therefore, that they were merely dwellers in the neigh- borhood.
All of them addressed him simultaneously and in some confusion, at which Kicker said breezily:
“Don’t let royalty rattle you, girls. Cut out the high voice and talk in the natural regis-
ter. Sam is a timid, flickering spark and he wouldn’t blaze if you fanned him.” “What a beautiful car, Mr. Lee!” .. .
“Aren’t vou afraid somebody will steal
it?” . . . “How shall we ride?” . . .“‘It’s
the same make as that car in ‘The Green
Hat.’ Didn’t you adore the play?” .. .
“I’m wearing a green hat, I’ll ride with Mr. Lee. Unless one of you would prefer 2s 5 “Go ahead.” Gorham addressed the last speaker the while he lowered the folding seats in the tonneau. “You’re intellectual and so is Sam. He’s the mental giant of the sophomore class and he does all our heavy thinking. Wait.till he warms up the old cerebellum and explains the mysteries of the solar system, or thrills you with the principle of the mariners’ compass. He’s full of exciting gossip. Eh, Sam?”
? ~
Sam Lee’s white teeth gleamed as he fitted-his key to the lock and pressed the starter. ‘I’m not a gladiator at small talk,” he admitted, “but I’m an aggressive listener.” “Tt makes me nervous to ride with a driver who talks too much,” declared the girl at his side. ‘My, this car runs like silk, doesn’t it?” There followed a-moment or two of general chatter ‘during which each and -évéry passenger undertook to make himself or herself heard. Then Wade gained attention. “Say, people! How about some close harmonizing while we get better acquainted? . Who knows the words to something? Anything. I’m a tiger on tunes but words bother me. I make up my own—‘Red-hot mama! Red-hot mama! Vo-do-de-o! Vo- do-de-o!’ They fit anything. Come on! Somebody start a dirge.”’ One of the girls began to hum the chorus of a popular song and the others joined in. After a while the girl at Sam’s side—he believed her name was Hart, but he was not sure—in- quired of him: “Don’t you'sing?” “Not well,” he confessed. “Goodness! Who does outside of Italy? I-can’t keep. up with the new songs. That’s because I have no radio. There isn’t room for one in my little room; it’s about the size of a canoe. The real reason is I can’t afford one.” She laughed pleasantly. ‘I sup- pose you have a set?” Sam inclined his head. ‘Most of the fellows have sets.” “What kind is yours?” He told her and she gasped. “Oh, Mr. Midas! What haven’t you got? A thousand-dollar radio, a Spanish car, an apart- ment of your own and a—a valet! Gee, I'd call that living. Where is your home, Mr. Lee?” “New York.” “T’m a Westerner. Barton- ville, Ohio!’ Sam looked at her and again his teeth shone in a smile. “I wa; born in San Francisco,’”’ said he. There was an _ interruption from the quartet in the rear. A moment and then Miss Hart ad- dressed him in some curiosity: “T thought wealthy fellows like you always put up at the frat — houses.” “A good many do. I don’t be- long to any fraternity.” “ve been to some of the dances; one or two. >I think it’s terrible the -way those. fellows look at college. I mean as if it , were all play. If they had any Alice gasped: ‘You mean—Paris? That's my idea how hard it is to earn s! ‘ There came a gale of laughter from the back seats. Kicker, Sam Lee felt enormously grateful to his two friends for m- Spud and their two companions were talking like parrots. viting him to join their party. It was nice of them to admit ‘Through the upper end of the city and out into the country him into such close fellowship with them and to introduce him Sam drove. The roads were smooth and wide, the night was _ to their girls, for he was a pretty lonely person. It was nice of fragrant with pleasant, earthy odors. Youth itself on such a __ the girls, also, to treat him so graciously. Miss Hart—Alice was night is a delirious adventure. her given name—had quite recovered from her first constraint 26
dream!"’
and was exerting herself to be agreeable. She no longer shrank Over against her end of the seat.as if he had measles: on the con- » She took the wheel wherever the road was open and at such times her body pressed close to his, her shoulder rested against his chest. Her hands were soft and warm; when they touched Sam’s he was conscious of unaccustomed sensations,
a
A look of dismay flickered over Sam's face and resentment stirred in Lee Ying’s breast.
It would have been easy to slip an arm around her: probably she more than half expected him to do so, for something of that sort was going on behind, but Sam had never put his arm around a girl.
A dog rushed out from a farmhouse gate and raced along beside the running board. It came with the intention of banking
The stream of pedestrians divided to let Sam's car pass through. There were new odors, strange, pungent, spicy; Oriental men wearing ill-fitting clothes; outlandish cries and words without meaning.
30
savagely, but the speed of the machine was such that it could manage to emit nothing more terrifying than a falsetto yelp or two. Kicker Wade waved his cap and jeered at the animal as it fell behind, then with a sudden change of tone announced that he was hungry.
“Why bring that up?” Gorham inquired irritably.
“How can I help bringing it up? Sa-a-y/ Don’t kick me! If you want to step on my foot, step on it under a table with a nap- kin in your neck. That dog makes my mouth water: he started a sequence of thought. Remember Prof Austin’s lecture on thought sequence? But of course you don’t. You don’t re- member: anything. He calls it successiveness. ‘Thought flows like a stream of water and one channel leads into another.’ Fol- Jow me. Dog! Running dog! Dog overheated! Hotdog! Plural, hot dogs! With mustard! Ain’t culture wonderful?”
ICKER’S girl companion uttered an exclamation. She hadn’t K tasted a hot dog in goodness knows when. Neither had the other girl, nor Alice Hart, for that matter. Food became the topic of conversation; starvation, it seemed, threatened more than one of the party. Somebody suggested it would be fun to get a bite somewhere and then dance for an hour.
Came another panicky protest from the bankrupt Gorham aimed at his pal Wade: ‘‘Hunger is good for people. It sharpens their intellects, and Lord knows yours needs it, Kicker. For me, I couldn’t eat a thing. So help me!”
But Wade was shameless in money matters, financial obliga- tions rested upon him as lightly as thistle-down. With no hint of embarrassment he declared:
“‘We won’t press you, big boy. Live on your fat like a bear if you will, but I famish. Having fasted since dinner-time, my brain grows feverish, fancies come and go, visions pass before my eyes. Beautiful visions like those that tantalize the thirsty traveler in a desert. Look! I see a swell road-house. It’s all lit up. There’s music in the air. And smells! Smells of Welsh rab- bits! . . . Do I dream? Is it all a cruel mirage? But no, six people are entering that heavenly road-house and I am one of them. They are led by a handsome, open-handed youth in a polo coat. Who is this princely fellow? Is it It is! It is— Sam Leel’’
Above the laughter Wade went on in a hollow voice:
‘Are we his guests? I—can’t make out. I think I see him lending me money to pay the check. Yes! And now the scene changes; comes the dawn. It is tomorrow. I am returning Sam’s loan.”
“There’s no doubt, now, it’s a mirage,’’ Gorham asserted.
Sam Lee turned his smiling face to inquire: ‘“‘What do you say if we go back the shore road and stop at the Bird Cage?”’
This query brought a shout from Wade but half-hearted pro- tests from the girls. Not the Bird Cage. That was altogether too spiffy. They weren’t dressed for a place like that. Of course it would be wonderful just to see it but——- Wade, who usually constituted himself a majority in any group, declared:
“Tt’s a positive inspiration. You girls look like three plush horses, and anyhow Sam’s known there.”
“Tt’s so—expensive,”’ Alice Hart ventured.
“Pish! And two tushes! You’re not with Spud and me, you’re with Sam. He should worry about the high cost of caviar with millions out at six percent. bonded bloat-holder.”’
Sam felt a certain embarrassment, especially as he was aware that Miss Hart was staring at him with new interest. Kicker was frequently embarrassing with his talk of money. It was characteristic of him to invite everybody to dine at another’s expense, that was his way. He, and Spud too, had practically been living off Sam’s bounty for months, but what of it? Money could buy so little. What really mattered was the fact that these two fellows liked him, had accepted him as a friend and an intimate. They actually kidded him and introduced him to their girls.
A feeling of gratitude absurdly out of proportion to its cause came over the driver of the car. He was no longer an outsider. He wished he knew how to joke as freely and as easily as these fellows, but his training had been different from theirs. He doubted if he could ever learn the secret of badinage.
The Bird Cage was the most popular road-house on the north shore. It had been done in the Chinese fashion, with miniature flower-gardens and dwarfed pine trees surrounding the dancing floor and with tiny pebbled pools spanned by toy bamboo bridges separating the tables. Scores of bird cages, each with a twittering canary of imperial yellow, swung from the lacquered beams, and all the attendants were in Oriental costume.
My heart bleeds for that poor
Son of the Gods
Smart people frequented the Bird Cage, for one of the orchestras in the city played there nightly, and the cover cha was high. That cover charge amounted to more than most ¢ students at Eastern spent on themselves in a week, and i ne sequence it was not liberally patronized by the college cr But Sam went there frequently to dine alone. ;
He let his companions out under the porte-cochére, parked car and returned to the porch, then led the way inside, | three girls were chattering animatedly as he removed his ; and cap and tossed them to the coat man. He ran a hand his shiny black hair and turned, smiling, to his guests.
It was his first chance to see them distinctly and he was curk to discover whether these friends of Spud’s and Kicker’ 8, cially Miss Hart, would prove as attractive in a revealing light in the semi-obscurity of the night. He was not disappointi They were healthy, charming, animated girls: Alice—Alice H; —was unusually pretty. Sam had learned by now that shey an advanced student at the School of Design. That explais why he had never seen her on the campus, for Eastern’s art sch was in the heart of the city. Of the other two, one held a po of some importance in a publishing house and——
Sam felt his gaze drawn from Alice’s face to that of Kiel girl; perhaps his attention was attracted by the fact that. broke off in the middle of what she was saying and stared at out of startled eyes. A look of incredulity succeeded her st she opened her lips to speak, but the obsequious propriet the Bird Cage bustled up at that moment witha word of welee to Sam and an inquiry as to where he wished his party seat When the latter had made his wishes known, the girls were their way to the dressing-room. 2
The or hestra in the café started playing, the dance floo; and the three college men moved forward and looked in. — voutly Gorham murmured:
“Heaven must be a road-house! Listen to that sax app
Wade shook his head. ‘In the beginning God made and earth. Mr. Volstead made the road-houses.”
“And how!’’ breathed the former speaker.
Sam Lee was staring at the gyrating throng; his face was p his eyes were as expressionless as onyx disks, he did not see hear what his friends were saying.
When several moments had passed, Wade inquired irrita “What ails those sopranos? I require nourishment.”
“‘Give a date free lip-sticks and face powder and she’ll s it into a permanent wave. I bet they’ve stopped to get shaves
Wade felt a touch on his arm: a maid in an Oriental ble blue silk trousers and felt-soled slippers advised him that 1 the ladies wished to speak to him. He followed her. —
sTorMY face peered out at Kicker from the dressing-t@
door, an angry voice greeted him. a “You’ve got your nerve!”’ “Hello! What’s wrong?”
“You know very well. You get us out of here this mintlig
before anybody sees us.”” The speaker was furious, her cyes W glowing. ‘‘The idea! Alice is crying. She’s almost in hystem Illumination came to Kicker. “You mean—Sam? Aw here! Don’t be a goofer.” “T recognized him the minute we got in here. If this idea of a practical joke’”—the excited young woman choke “well, I think it’s pretty rotten and I’m going to tell my fath The Regents will hear about this, Mr. Fresh, you see if t don’t.” “But listen, dearie—— “Listen nothing! You get us out of here, that’s all. of your daring to take us out with a Chinaman!”’ Spud Gorham’s seat-mate now revealed herself in the d opening. from him.” “For heaven’s sake, be reasonable! place like this,’ Kicker implored. Chinese.”’ “Bah!” : “What’s the difference——” i “Anyhew, we don’t think of him as one. He’s a high-clast gentleman. If I’d-had any idea you felt like this—but it’s to0 late now. You’ve got to go through.” i “And have him ask us to dance?” “That’s just what he’d do. I’d die.” “Are you going to take us away?” “T can’t. What would I tell him?” “We should worry what you tell him.”
”
The
Don’t make a scene ina “Sam isn’t an 0
SR a Soe dh Rh CSD DRA Db Ba il
“That’s what I say. I’ve got a brother and you'll h .
Think I’m going to baw! myself out, and him, too?
fact that
tared ath ed her ~ ni proprietor d of weld
party seat girls were
ce floor ked in.
e this m her eyes
ou see if
lf in the door and you'll heat
ce a scene ima
an ordinary
’s a high-clast s—but it’s too
and him, too?
‘
@. Alice tried on the new finery Sam had sent her, indulging her contemning, vanity. artist of herself if she had the chance, and she would pay any price, almost, for the opportunity.
Angrily Wade exclaimed: “You just want to start something. Who the devil do you think you are? The Astor girls? Sam doesn’t look Chinese, and nobody here knows him.”
ths know him!”
Nasty yellow man! Ugh! I wouldn’t let him touch me,” the other girl put in.
“Ts that so? Well, Alice let him touch her, all right! Every- thing was Jake till you started to broadcast. And he isn’t yellow, either. But here’s Spud——”
Gorham had observed storm-signals and was approaching: Sam Lee still stood in the doorway absorbed in watching the dancers. His back was to his guests.
When Spud learned what was amiss he joined his entreaties to Kicker’s, but with no success.
She could make an
“Do you think we’d be seen in a public place with an Oriental?”
“Yes, and his name isn’t Sam Lee, at all—it’s Lee Sam.”” The indignant instigator of the scene made herself heard. “I never thought when you introduced him, but the instant I got a good look: ee
“Tee Sam is the Chinese way to say his name,” Kicker ex- plained. ‘““They get everything backwards. Now listen: he’s a big guy; his father is the richest Oriental in New York. He’s the Chinese Marshall Field. Sam’s a kind of a prince. He’s an honor man at the university and x“
“Are you going to call a taxi?”
“Ts who going to call what taxi?” Gorham demanded roughly. “You’d wear out a new one on the way home. We're further from home than Cape Town. If you (Continued on page a
G.' Mah young prince’ll bust his heart over dat little sea-devil,”* murmured”
HE first time Lydia beheld her son drape a bit of apple- green silk, left over from a bridesmaid’s frock, around the wire figure of her dressmaking form, she reached out and plucked him off as you would a bur.
“Bernard, don’t you ever let me see you do that again.”
Tish, remnant of the days when the late Major Yardsley had been stationed at El Paso, raised two pallid and horny palms and rolled two-eyes that were like black circles of carbon-paper pasted against white.
— chile’s chip off de ole block of his mammy, I'll say, Miss Lydie.”
“There’s nothing funny in that, Tish. Children who imitate everything they see are little monkeys. Boys don’t play at dressmaking, Bernard. That’s sissified.”
Sissified, a word destined to become as cuttingly sibilant as a buzz-saw to Bernard, had not yet made its dent. There was to come a day in the household when it became unsayable. But by that time, the mere saying of it no longer mattered so much, because long before Bernard was fifteen, it was more a part of the sensation of a lodestone or a lump lodging in the throat, than it was a word.
Children frequently hurled the noun of it at Bernard. It made a wildcat of Lydia. Once she had slapped a small boy resound- ingly across the face for hissing it out at Bernard as they passed along the street. An enraged note had followed from the neigh- borhood boy’s outraged mother, to which Lydia had written apology.
Such an outburst, striking a child across the face, was so alien to her nature that, looking back, it seemed to her some third and — hand must have darted out from her subconsciousness
and struck at that boy. Bernard, on the other hand, had only increased his speed and hurried along without glancing back, which, in Lydia’s secret and tormented opinion, was as strange a thing for the son of Major Yardsley to have done, as it was for — her to have struck out. :
Well, what could you expect! was Lydia’s excited and some- times almost hysterical fashion of talking down, to herself, these forbidden thoughts when they crept on her unawares. You could not hope to rear a boy in a city, and of all places around a dress- making establishment, and make a man of him overnight.
Then this only-child business. Wasn’t there a scientific theory to the effect that only children, because of their enforced lone- liness and association with their elders were—yes, yes, yes— and so on and so on and so on.
Now, if the major had only been spared, all might have been so different. Ah, there was a venturesome spirit for you! Alas, too venturesome! Lydia had first clapped eyes on him when she was a seminary girl in Ferguson, a suburb of St. Louis, and he had been stationed at Jefferson Barracks. They had met at a Tree Day reception. He had been in full uniform.
Sometimes it seemed to Lydia that her marriage had been a dream that ended—or had it begun?—with the message that followed the battle of Chateau-Thierry. He had died m action.
She kept the splotched and crumpled message in a small carved sandalwood box. Sometimes she showed it to Bernard. That — was what made it seem a strange thing, somehow, for the son of — Major Yardsley to have hurried along without glancing back, - — the sibilant aspersion had hopped off the lips of the
a Vy. °
aun Cre.
* murmured
d, had only acing back, ; as strange 1s it was for
| and some- erself, these You could und a dress- ight. atific theory forced lone- yes, yes—
t have been you! Alas, im when she , and he had et at a Tree
ze had been he message had died m
small carved nard. That
or the son
ancing back,
e lips of
Tish. Silly old brown Tish, thought Lydia.
It made her secretly resolve to become a little strict with Bernard. To harden him a bit. To refuse to permit him to hang around the house after school hours. To send him out to join the other boys at play.
Lydia loved to have Bernard about. There was something sedative about him. He never seemed to want or desire to a suf- ficient degree to make him unruly. He was a satisfying child to have around and could stand at the window for half an hour watching the street scenes quietly and without any of the noisy, jumpy impulses of most boys to be in and out. Sometimes he would lie under the sewing-table on his stomach, chin propped on palms, and improvise little chants.
The flow-er said to the lit-tle dog, I would rath-er be me than you—ooo.
Cats are nice but I hate mice I—hate—mice——
ae who from time to time, when she felt strangely bothered about Bernard, had read books on child culture and psychol- ogy, would often listen to these and try to analyze them.
I want to sit in a golden spoon
And eat little cakes the shape of the moon.
Now what could that one mean? You were supposed to be to draw important deductions from unconscious revelations this, which would give you the private key to the innermost
ts of your child.
It was a pretty enough little thought, that one about the spoon moon, but somehow, from her reading, Lydia would have
Preferred that Bernard’s mind run to the husky themes of piracy
Quite an
U nusual
or conquest by land or air.
Frequently, as she sat stitching, stitching, Lydia found herself leaning for- ward, with an almost breathless eagerness, for some such note in the chantings of her son as he lay beneath the sewing- table.
The garden was filled
with roses
That the pansies made
faces at.
What kind of thoughts were those for a boy of eleven! Why, even as Bernard chanted them, her neighbor’s son Bleeker could be heard breaking a broomstick bronco down in the yard below.
“Bernard, why don’t you run out and play?”
“T am playing, Mother.”
Lydia found herself passionately wanting Bernard to be break- ing broomstick broncos in the yard below. She used to insist upon his going down, only to have him come trailing in a little later, pale, and sometimes with evidence of blackened tear stains along his cheeks.
It was no use. Bernard hated breaking broncos down in the back yard with Bleeker Sheehan or Rodney Stuart.
Tish used to fold him to her as if he had been absent over a long period of time, when he came wearily indoors from these enforced forays into the small-boy outside world, and wash the black streaks off his cheeks and, with her wide pink lips against his ear, mumble treasons against Lydia.
“Mah young-prince honey-chile ain’t got ways dat fits in wid dem thar devils-on-wheels of boys down thar. If Tish ketches one of dem good-for-nothin’ red Injuns a-layin’ a hand to her boy, Tish’ll parboil ’em in oil, dat’s what Tish’ll do. Your ma hadn’t ought to think she’s a-makin’ a man out of you by sendin’ you down thar to git bean-shot at.”
Bean-shot would send Bernard into a hysteria of dread. He dreaded for his eyes. He batted them wildly, covered them with his hands and ran shouting and shuddering up the back stairs.
Well, Lydia used to reason excitedly to herself on these oc- casions, what could you expect? Bleeker was just naturally a blustering fellow and Rodney’s own blood uncle was none other than Tex Stuart, the lightweight champion—or was it the heavy- weight? More probably heavy.
Boys of just ordinary stripe could be expected to stand up under a spatter of shot. Highly strung, sensitive boys were —
Illustrations by Henry Raleigh
34
matter. More than probably the major himself had hated bean- shot.
“Shh-h-h, Bernard, get quiet, darling. You don’t have to go out and play any more today.
“Tish will take you out in the kitchen and give you a cooky, won’t you, Tish?”
“Honey-chile, just you come wid Tish. I hope to de Lord de four-eyed heebiejeebies gits ebery one of dem daredevils what pesters mah chile.”
When Tish’s hand, which was the color of pale jade on the in- side and a corduroyed brown on the out, closed over Bernard’s, it could cause rest and security to flow their ways back into his wildly beating heart.
After a time, Lydia. ceased to command Bernard to go out and play, because usually when he came home from the public school which he attended, two blocks away, there were such tired lines about his mouth that Lydia did not quite dare. Not
@In the doll Bernard had achieved his Nicola with amazing fidelity. It had been easy for him to do her to the life. Nicola’s loveliness was graven into his heart.
Sissy
that he ever complained, or that there were complaints from school, but for some reason, unmentionable even to herself, Lydia never inquired, or attempted to meet his teachers. The reports which he brought home were fairly good; studies average, de. portment, for the most part, excellent.
Again for a reason she could not analyze, Lydia shrank before the consistent excellency of the deportment. Bleeker’s mother complained bitterly of her boy’s low conduct grades, but Lydia, who sewed for her, felt a sort of secret and vicious exultancy jn her manner.
“Boys will be boys, Mrs. Yardsley, isn’t it true?”
art yes, yes, Mrs. Sheehan.” Now what did she mean by that :
Just the same, Lydia no longer drove Bernard down into the yard to play with these boys who would be boys. Besides, the customers enjoyed him around the house. He was rather a beautiful boy, with contemplative dark eyes and long,
P
plaints from erself, Lydia The reports average, de-
hrank before ker’s mother s, but Lydia, exultancy in
she mean by
own into the Besides, the was rather ; and long,
Fannie Hurst
smooth cheeks. Eager to please, too, and willing at errands.
But one day a Mrs. Bok, a large young woman who could have afforded Paris clothes, but swore by the way in which Lydia could fit her heavy figure, took exception. Standing in her underbodice before a long mirror, while Lydia, on her knees, her mouth full of pins and her pretty ash-colored hair awry, was turning up a hem, Mrs. Bok started, recoiled and threw a scarf over her shoulders ‘as Bernard entered the room.
“Please don’t let your boy come in while I’m being fitted, Mrs. Yardsley. Such a great big boy—it’s not nice——”
“Ym so sorry, Mrs. Bok. Bernard is such a child in his ways, we forget he’s nearly thirteen. Bernard, run out and play.” But at the stricken look which followed that command, there was borne full upon her the most acute awareness of her new problem.
Bernard, whom the women. customers had loved to pet, was outgrowing his environment. Along the narrow, pale panel of his cheeks, was the beginning of a hint of light fuzz. He had already
35
approached his mother for long trousers. He carried a coin- purse by now for his own spending-money and took off his cap gravely to small neighborhood girls whom he passed in the street.
Mrs. Bok had been quite right. Lydia was grateful to her for jerking her to this awareness of her son’s fine and normal maturity which had been embarrassing to her as a customer.
For a moment, the exigency of giving up the dressmaking es- tablishment flashed over Lydia. No doubt about it, this was no environment for a growing boy. Lydia hated more and more Bernard’s tendency to putter with bits of silk and to make amus- ing character dolls out of clothes-pins and scraps of material that fell from under her scissors. A boy did not have much opportunity to develop into a boy’s boy in such an environment.
The small pension paid her by the government was less than they could live on, without some additional source of income, even in circumstances rather more than modest. But there was always the alternative of doing hand-work for the Women’s Exchanges. The first few years of Bernard’s life she had managed it that way, occupying a small room in a lodging-house and sewing while her son learned to crawl.
Her natural aptitude with the needle as- serting itself, she had been able to earn the much-needed margin to her income by mak- ing satin flowers, lamp-shades, bed jackets and boudoir caps. From there, the step of branching out into dressmaking was a logical one.
By the act of moving from El Paso back to the St. Louis she had known as a girl when the late major had been stationed at Jeffer- son Barracks, and announcing to a few of her erstwhile friends her intention of setting up dressmaking, Lydia, within the first twelve- month, had been able to double her income.
Friends both in town and out in the sub- urb of Ferguson, where she had spent her childhood previous to the death of her parents, remembered her pretty aptitude with the needle, and rallied around.
Her present scale of life in the apartment that occupied the upper floor of a two-family building on a nicely laid out residential street, known as Vernon Avenue, was the result of Lydia’s ability by now almost to quadruple the income derived from the pension.
Tish, who had been maid of all work in the El] Paso household during those strangely unreal and cherished months of the major’s lifetime and who had held Bernard in her chocolate-colored arms the first hour of his life, had been sent for, as the dressmaking end of the establishment grew and Lydia was no longer able to sandwich in her do- mestic chores between fittings.
There was a helper in the sewing-room too, and if Lydia had been ambitious for still further extension, one of her patrons, a » Mrs. Hammerschlakker of Ferguson, had twice offered to back her to the extent of twenty-five hundred dollars in setting up a downtown establishment. ;
Lydia, to whom the idea of the dress- making business on a larger scale was not tenable. found the question of discontinuing it entirely, to be even more untenable. Why, its chief virtue all along had been the ad- vantages the increased income could make possible for Bernard. His education. His home. His opportunities in the vocation or profession he would ultimately choose for himself. Now that he was approaching his middle teens it seemed highly impracticable even to contemplate a return to a more re- stricted mode of living.
Lydia and Bernard could no longer occupy one small room in a lodging-house. Besides, that environment might present even greater disadvantages than the present one of dressmaker’s twaddle, silk, drapes and Tish’s extravagant (Continued on page 196)
ouverneur Morris
By
f He
{6g T USED to be called theIslandof Women, but now it is called Birthday Island, and
for very good reasons. The
islanditselfhasbeenreborn.” Callot reached for the
Gilby gin with one hand and
with the other wiped the
perspiration from his brow.
Reborn? I should say it had been (he continued). But it won’t affect civiliza- tion any. It’s too little— thirty miles around and mostly mountains. If it had only been bigger—as big as New Zealand, say, and with national resources: coal, oil, iron—it might end by having its say with the whole world, and making it a better place to live in. g But it’s too little—the population has reached the saturation point—probably it’s already reached the peak of its possibilities, and will begin to go downhill.
But it’s a shame, for I tell you that it’s the only crumb of the earth’s surface that’s entirely inhabited by decent, able, worth- while people. There’s no vice—no rottenness, and not a chance for missionaries or traders or officials or any other low-down white trash to introduce any.
You can go ashore if you like, but you have to keep within a restricted area. And in that area while you're in it, even if you are an old man like me, you won’t even see one female child let alone a grown woman. You'll do your trading with three hand- some, serious young men, and then you'll get out.
It’s one of the British islands, of course, but the natives own all the real estate, and they won’t sell a square inch. Anything that looks like a path leading into the interior has a tabu sign on it— tabu meaning “Private Property,” “No Trespassing,” ‘No Thoroughfare.” If you insist on trespassing, you'll be knocked on the head, and when the matter comes up before the British authorities, they will say that it served you jolly well right.
They don’t even keep a commissioner on that island. They realize that it runs itself better than they or anybody else could run it, and they are proud to let it go at that.
Birthday Island is a man’s island today. But it used to be a woman’s island. It belonged to the great island of Boralonga, distant seven miles across the Straits of Boralonga, and played a basic part in the religion and customs of that island.
The Boralongans had ideas of their own—and good ideas. Like all the original South Sea islanders, they had highly devel- oped and sound biological theories. They were brave and war- like—great boatmen, swimmers and fishermen. They weren’t afraid to tackle a sperm-whale. But they were stern moralists and had no use for philandering.
When a young man of the Boralongans was judged old enough and wise enough and strong enough, the chief took him aside and talked to him, and put a gardenia over his right ear, and told him to swim the straits to the Island of Women, choose a wife and bring her home with him.
The young man would proceed to obey orders. He would swim the straits, choose a wife, and swim back home with her.
If his wife bore him a female child, why, the moment it was weaned, he and his wife would rub the baby’s little nose good-by and ship her back to the Island of Women, to be reared in toil and innocence. And the same with his wife, when she got too old to _ any more children.
carned
about
Cu WA
Illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg
So you see there were never any females on the Island of Bora- longa except wives in the years of their fertility. Delicate and misshapen children were knocked on the head.
The Boralonga formula produced a strong, handsome, vivid race. There’s no question about that. If the chiefs thought that fresh blood was needed, they would spare such prisoners taken in war as were of the right age, and had fought most bravely, and _ adopt them into the nation. And sometimes a promising male — child was spared and allowed to grow up among them.
One such child was spared, not only because he had a fine body but because he was blue-eyed and red-headed.
As events proved, Bimbo must have been a white child, but the Boralongans didn’t know that. According to tradition, ex- cept for his blue eyes and his red hair, he had just the same beauti- ful golden-brown coloring that everybody else had.
At the time that the chiefs decided to let him live he must have been ten or eleven years old. And, as events proved, he must have been able to read and write. But if he had told the Boralongans of these accomplishments, they wouldn’t have known what he was talking about.
ERE is good reason to think that the Boralongan boys in
those old days grew to manhood without any definite knowl-
edge of sex. The married men lived apart with their wives. There were no girls running about. And sex as a topic was tabu.
The boys were brought up in a school of violent physical exer- cise: swimming, fishing, climbing, hunting, boat-building, hewing and planting and handling weapons. And at the same time, of course, all the island commandments and tabus were dinned into them and became an automatic part of all their mental processes.
Bimbo, according to tradition, was a wonderful natural athlete. He had the kind of mind and body that win the Decathlon at the Olympic games. Among all the young men on the island, he was simply the best at everything. Also, according to tradition, he was immensely merry, full of prankings and practical jokes.
When he was seventeen, some of the chiefs thought that he ought to be allowed to take a wife. Others thought that he should wait another year. A few thought, secretly, that such a
wonderful young man ought to be allowed to take more than one
wife, for the future good of the island. But even to them such. thoughts were tabu.
While the matter was pending, the weather became ominously calm and gave birth presently to a hurricane, and there was an © awful smashing of banana trees and coconut trees and houses and canoes. The Boralongans suffered heavy material losses. But
d of Bora-
licate and —
me, vivid
ising
fine body
child, but dition, ex- me beauti-
e he must proved, he d told the ave known
in boys in ite knowl- ves. There ibu.
rsical exer- ng, hewing 1e time, of linned into | processes. ral athlete. cathlon at . island, he ) tradition, al jokes. ht that he ht that he hat such a -e than one
them such -
ominously ere was an © houses and ysses. But
to compensate them, a dismasted brig was heaved clean over the barrier reef, and grounded hard and fast in the lagoon.
While the brig was grounding, the hurri- canedied as suddenly as ithadbeen born, andthe islanders at once swam off to obtain the trea- sures with which their gods, at once punitive and obliging, had supplied them: bolts of iron and copper, nails, ropes, blocks, cop- per sheeting, planks, canvas, pots, pans and myriads of other marvels,
Most of this loot was appro- priated for the public good by the old men. But there were enough odds and ends left over to make all the boys and young men feel rich and privileged.
Bimbo’s share of the treasure was a book. Nobody else seemed to want it.
All of that volume which has survived worms and mildew still exists, or existed five years ago, when a toothless and senile old priest of the Boralongans took’ the wreckage out of a hiding-place and allowed me to examine it. The Boralongans, the poor old shrunken remnant of what was once a dominant Pacific race, attribute the catastrophe Which overwhelmed them to that book. They feared it so that they dared not destroy it, lest worse things befall them.
They don’t know, of course, what book it is, or what it is about. They don’t even know that it is a book. They only know that until Bimbo brought that book ashore and made a god of it, Sat in the shade of a palm tree and looked at it by the hour, turn- ing the leaves of thin paper and examining all the black marks on
, they were happy and prosperous. And that within three months they found themselves faced with a problem which,
JEL MCNECMERY TAR
soluble though it may have been, they found themselves unable to solve.
In seven years Bimbo must have forgotten a great many words that he once had known. He tackled that book there- fore with the diminished vocabulary of a bright ten- or eleven-year-old boy, and must of course have missed the meaning of whole passages, but he got enough out of the book, which he seems to have devoured, to give him thoughts and ideas about conduct and ethics which never yet had been dreamed of in the island philosophy.
One day the old head chief sent for Bimbo. And Bimbo came, the book, from which he was inseparable, under his arm.
“Bimbo,” said the old chief, ‘“‘you have played with that thing long enough. You have allowed it to distract your mind from the serious business of life. Give it to me.”
Bimbo surrendered the book.
“T will put it in a safe place,” said the old chief, “and later on perhaps I will give it back to you. And now we shall speak of something else. You are no longer a boy, Bimbo, but a man. The time for marriage has come upon you.
“Of marriage you only know that when it is time for a young man to marry, a fiare Boralonga is placed over his right ear, and he swims across the straits to the Island of Women, and chooses a young woman to be his wife, and swims back with her to Boralonga, and goes to live with her in the quarter which is set aside for married couples. That is all you know about marriage.”
Bimbo nodded gravely, and said, “Yes. That is all.”
“Unhappily,” said the old chief, “it is necessary to know
BRA | more than that. And I shall at th | once proceed to impart all the ita additional knowledge which is necessary, and as delicately as possible. Now, Bimbo, by what I am going to tell you, you are going to be immensely surprised . . .”
Bimbo nodded gravely and signified that he was all ears.
An hour later the old chief picked a beautiful gardenia from the bush in front of his house, and wedged it firmly between Bimbo’s close-growing, somewhat pointed right ear and the side of his skull. Then he led Bimbo to the shore of the lagoon and pointed to the fantastic sky-line of the Island of Women.
“Steer,”’ he told Bimbo, “for the highest peak. The Island of Women is not like Boralonga. There is but the one opening through the reef and but one place at which a swimmer may get ashore. Swim swiftly, choose wisely, and return soon.. ne J
38 He Learned About Women from Hi
“To hear my father’s words,” said Bimbo, “is to obey them.”
Then he rubbed his beautiful young nose against the old man’s ugly old nose and, turning, rushed into the lagoon with a great splashing. When the water reached his waist he dived, and when he came to the surface he was seen to be swimming toward the Island of Women with the grace and almost the speed of a porpoise.
The old man was a little troubled. Usually what he told the young men, before they embarked on the nuptial swim, fright- ened them and made them seem shy and troubled. And they usually swam out te sea in a slow reflective sort of way. Bimbo, contrariwise, had displayed an é/an, an eagerness, which in the old chief’s mind almost amounted to a breach of good manners.
The old man sighed, and turned away from the beach. “TI do hope,” he thought, “that for the good of our race, he makes a wise choice, something strong and sensible, something with extra good eyesight and all its teeth . . . But the old women will be there to advise him, and if they don’t know what’s what, who does? Who indeed!”
But Bimbo, it seemed, was not going to need any advice
-from the old women. It seemed that he had not listened
very carefully even to the advices and instructions of the old chief. Worse, it seemed that the commandments and tabus which had been taught him during his Boralongan adoption had not become the real basis for his acts and thoughts . . .
You know yourself that right here in Papeiti there was never a case of theft among the natives, or of vulgarity in speech or dress, or of downright idiotic conduct, until American civilization was revealed to them on the screen of their motion-picture house.
Bimbo, in an older day, presents us perhaps with a similar case. ' According to all tradition he was a true Boralongan, heart and soul, until he had received, and preferred, a different scheme of life from the book which had come ashore in the dismasted brig. He had been an obedient lad, and good-natured. He had made himself a past master of all the island arts and crafts. He was as the young Adam might have been before the fall.
If it had not been for the book, it is probable that Bimbo would have swum to the Island of Women, chosen a wife, with the
advice of the old women, and returned to Boralonga on the follow: ing day. But the book had given him a different set of ideas.
But it must have been the sheer difficulty of getting ashore on the Island of Women which finally determined him to put al} those strange and alluring ideas into practise. —
The Island of Women, or Birthday Island, as it is now called, differs from any other South Sea island with which I am familiar, It has the usual barrier reef, through which there is only one pas- sage, and inside of that is the usual lagoon, deep in some pl. shallow in others, paved with lumps of coral, living and dead, and teeming with the vivid life of tropic waters.
But then, instead of coming to gentle and practical beaches of white sea sand or black volcanic sand, you are faced by cliffs— sixty feet high—which where they are not perpendicular are superimpending. They are so smooth that, almost, you might say they are polished. They offer neither footholds nor hand- holds. In a word, they can’t be climbed, either by the ablest guide in Switzerland, or the most talented goat in the Rockies,
E ascent of the cliffs is possible only at one place. Opposite
| the opening in the barrier reef there is a crack or chimney which
leans a little back from the perpendicular. Wedging with knees
and back, a good climber can worm his way up the chimney to the lovely levels above.
Bimbo must have seen at once that one brave warrior could defend that island against a thousand. It could be done with lumps of lava, with a club, with the adroitly placed and impelled sole of a foot.
Four miles out from Boralonga, and before his bright red head had been sighted from the Island of Women, Bimbo swam into a black rain squall, and this kept up until he had passed through the barrier reef, crossed the lagoon and come to rest in the warm lapping shallows at the foot of the chimney.
Only the watch at the top of the chimney had noted the arri- val of a young Boralongan in search of a wife. In spite of the red hair and the blue eyes, you could tell that Bimbo was a Boralon- gan by the gardenia over his ear and the tattooing on his chest—
the beginning of a double spiral, which in time, if he had remained
y)
\
Sse
° =
‘_—
The old chief was troubled. Bimbo’ s eager- ness to embark on the nuptial swim almost
7p Y yy
OL NERY ATARE
amounted to a breach of good manners.
the follow. f ideas.
ting ashore n to put al]
now call im familia? ily one pas- ome p
, and dead,
cal beaches 1 by cliffs— dicular are
arrior could e done with ind impelled
sht red head » swam into sed through in the warm
ted the arri- te of the red s a Boralon- . his chest— ad remained
Ordinarily the watch at the top of the chim- ney would have noti- fied the other women of Bimbo's arrival. But she didn’t. His ned hair and blue eyes caused her to for- get her instructions.
true to Boralongan tradition, would have been developed until it covered his entire anatomy.
Ordinarily the watch at the top of the chimney would have notified the others of his arrival by blasts on a triton shell. But for some reason she didn’t. It may be that the red hair, and the blue eyes looking steadily upward and the magnificent seagoing body actually rattled her and caused her to forget her instruc- tions.
Wedging with his knees and back, Bimbo wormed his way with unusual celerity to the top of the chimney.
Among the eligible maidens on the Island of Women, the watch at the top of the chimney was by no means the most comely, but she was a fine, strong, wholesome, ardent-looking young wench, and when she remembered her instructions and lifted the triton shell to her lips, Bimbo said, “Wait,” and took the triton- shell horn away from her.
“But,” said the maiden, “haven’t you made the big swim from Boralonga to choose a wife?”
“Certainly,”’ said Bimbo frankly, “and for the present I choose you.”
(Callot reached for the Gilby gin with one hand, and with the finger-tips of the other drummed delicately on the table. Then he went on again with the story.)
The fact that Bimbo and his chosen bride did not return to Boralonga on the following day was attributed to the weather— rain squalls and high winds. But when the sky cleared and the wind went down and days passed and there was no sign of Bimbo or the chosen one, the Boralongans came to the d‘smal conclusion that he, and she too for that matter, must have been drowned or massacred by barracuda.
re was mourning for that marvelous, smiling athlete,
the red-headed Bimbo, and then it came time for another young man to swim across the straits and fetch a wife. His name was Bo, and as luck would have it, he rated next to Bimbo among all the young Boralongans as an athlete, and a youth of character and forward lookingness. cy in addition he had been young Bimbo’s most intimate nen _ Well, Bo went overboard with a beautiful gardenia over his tight ear, and his head filled with instructions, and swam diffi-
tly and even bashfully if such a thing is possible toward the highest peak of the Island of Women.
The weather remained calm and beautiful, but Bo and the
wife whom he had been sent to choose did not show up, either on the next day or the day after, or ever. And they too were given up for lost.
It was Pamaloo’s turn next. He swam the
seven miles across and the seven miles back in one day. But there was no young female with him, and he was probably the most mortified and humiliated young man that ever came ashore on a South Sea beach.
“I got to the landing-place,” he said, “and looked up the crack in the cliff, and there looking down at me were Bimbo and Bo with wreaths of gardenias on their heads. And they laughed and said, ‘You can’t come up, Pamaloo.’
“They told me,” he went on, “that I was not only dull in con- versation but much too bandy-legged to become an ancestor. And they said furthermore that as it was there were hardly enough young women to go around—not more than five or six hundred.
“Nevertheless, mindful of my instructions and impelled by a new interest that I seemed to have taken in life, I started to work my way up the crack in the cliff. When I had climbed all the way to the top, Bimbo placed the sole of his foot in my face and propelled me all the way to the bottom of the cliff, and here Iam.
“And: furthermore,” he said, with tears running down his cheeks, “they shouted after me, and said, ‘Tell the rest of the Boralongans from now on to attend to their business, and we'll attend to ours.’ And until the roar of the waves on the barrier reef drowned out the sound, I could hear them laughing.”
ALLOT reached for the Gilby gin with one hand and with C the other made a gesture which seemed to signify, “Well, there you are; what do you think of that?”
But neither Beecher nor myself made any comment, and Callot presently said:
_ “The Boralongans sent war parties to the Island of Women, with stone gods in the bows of the canoes. But the two men on the island and all the women were violently opposed to them, and they found it impossible to effect a landing ... Well, and naturally the Boralongans have died out—there are only a few of them left—only a few very old, very peevish, very thwarted old men.
“And contrariwise, just across the straits the Bimbons, as they are called, have become the finest race, mentally and physically, that ever graced an island of the South Sea. Bimbo and Bo are both dead, but their works live on.”
“You said that the name of the island had been changed to Birthday Island,’’ said Beecher. “Why?”
“Well,” said Callot, “isn’t that rather a foolish question? About nine months after Bimbo landed, he and Bo came to the conclusion that Birthday Island would be an excellent name for the place.”
A question occurred to me, and I asked it.
“What,” I said, “was the book that put all those notions into Bimbo’s head?”
“The Memoirs of Monsieur Casanova,” said Callot.
39
ertrude
HE Honorable Freddie Threepwood, mar-
ried to the charming daughter of Donald-
son’s Dog-Biscuits of Long Island City,
N. Y., and sent home by his father-in-law to stimulate the sale of the firm’s products in En-; gland, naturally thought right away of his aunt Georgiana. There was a woman who literally ate dog-biscuits. She had owned, when he was last in this country, a matter of four Pekes, two Poms, a Yorkshire terrier, three Sealyhams and a Borzoi; and if that didn’t constitute a promising market for Donaldson’s Dog-Joy, Freddie would like to know what did.
A day or so after his arrival, accordingly, he hastened round to Upper Brook Street to make a sales talk; and it was as he was coming rather pen- sively out of the house at the conclusion of the in- terview that he ran into old Beefy Bingham, who had been up at Oxford with him.
Several years had passed since the other, then a third-year Blood and Trial Eights man, had bicycled along tow-paths saying rude things through a mega- phone about Freddie’s stomach, but he recognized him instantly. And this in spite of the fact that the passage of time appeared to have turned old Beefers into a clergy- man. His colossal frame was clad in sober black, and he was wearing one of those collars which are kept in position without studs, purely by the exercise of will-power.
“Beefers!” cried Freddie, his slight gloom vanishing in the pleasure of this happy reunion.
The Reverend Rupert Bingham returned his greeting with cordiality but without exuberance. He, too, seemed gloomy.
“Oh, hullo, Freddie,’ he said, and his voice was that of a man with a secret sorrow. “I haven’t seen you for years. What were you doing in that house?”
“Trying to sell my aunt dog-biscuits.”’
“T didn’t know Lady Alcester was your aunt.”
“Didn’t you, Beefers, old man? I thought it was all over London.”
“T suppose she told you about me, then?”
“What about you?” Freddie stared. “Great Scott! Are you the impoverished bloke who wants to marry Gertrude?”
“Yes. And now they’ve gone and sent her off to Blandings, to be out of my way.”
“But why are you impoverished? What about tithes? I always understood you birds made a pot out of tithes.”
“There aren’t any tithes where I am.”
“Oh? H’m. Not so hot. Well, what are you going to do about it, Beefers?”’
“T thought of calling on your aunt and trying to reason with her.”
Freddie took his old friend’s arm sympathetically and drew him away.
“No earthly good, old man. If a woman won’t buy Dog- Joy, it means she has some sort of mental kink and it’s no use trying to reason with her. We must think of some other proce- dure. So Gertrude is at Blandings, is she? She would be. The family seem to look on the place as a sort of Bastile. When- ys the young of the species make a floater like falling in love
@.Lord Emsworth considered that he had taken into bis acrobat, but after all the great thing was that Gertrude
with the wrong man, they are always shot off to Blandings to recover. The guv’nor has often complained about it bitterly. Now, let me think.”
They passed into Park Street. Some workmen were busy tearing up the paving with pneumatic drills, but the whirring of Freddie’s brain made the sound almost inaudible.
“T’ve got it,” he said at length, his features relaxing from the terrific strain. “And it’s a dashed good thing for you, my lad, that I went last night to see that super-film, ‘Young Hearts Adrift,’ featuring Rosalie Norton and Otto Byng. Beefers, old man, — legging it straight down to Blandings.”
SOW. at!’
“By the first train after lunch. I’ve got the whole thing planned out. In this super-film, ‘Young Hearts Adrift,’ a poor but deserving young man was in love with the daughter of rich and haughty parents, and they took her away to the country so that she could forget, and a few days later a mysterious stranger turned up at the place and ingratiated himself with the parents and said he wanted to marry their daughter, and they gave their consent, and the wedding took place, and then he tore off his whiskers and it was Jim!”
“Yes, but——”
“Don’t argue. The thing’s settled. My aunt needs a sharp lesson. You would think a woman would be only too glad to put business in the way of her nearest and dearest, especially when shown samples and offered a fortnight’s free trial. But no! She insists on sticking to Peterson’s Pup-Food, a wholly inferior product—lacking, I happen to know, in many of the . essential vitamins, and from now on, old boy, I am heart and soul in your cause.”
“Whiskers?” said the Reverend Rupert doubtfully.
“You won’t have to wear any whiskers. My guv’nor’s never seen you, Or has he?”
“No, I’ve not met Lord Emsworth.”
“Very well, then.”
rat 2s odehouse
Fate, usually indulgent to this dreamy peer, had suddenly turned nasty and smitten him a grievous blow beneath the belt.
They say Great Britain is still a first-class power, doing well and winning respect from the nations; and, if so, it is, of course, extremely gratifying. But what of the fu- ture? That was what Lord Ems- worth was asking himself. Could this happy state of things last? He thought not. Without wishing to be pessimistic, he was dashed if he saw how a country containing men like Sir Gregory Parsloe-: Parsloe of Matchingham Hall could hope to survive.
Strong? No doubt. Bitter? Granted. But not, we think, too strong, not—in the circumstances —unduly bitter. Consider the facts.
When, shortly after the triumph of Lord Emsworth’s preeminent sow, Empress of Blandings, in the Fat Pigs class at the eighty-seventh annual Shropshire agricultural show, George Cyril Wellbeloved, his lordship’s pig man, had ex- pressed a desire to hand in his portfolio and seek employment else- where, the amiable peer, though naturally grieved, felt no sense of outrage. He put the thing down “But what good will it do me, ingratiating myself, as you to the old roving spirit of the Wellbeloveds. George Cyril, he as-
ae home what appeared to be a balf-witted Illustrations by ee oa ee seemed to appreciate the newcomer’ s socicty. O. F. Howard
landings to call it, with your father? He’s only Gertrude’s uncle.” sumed, wearying of Shropshire, wished to try a change of air in it bitterly. “What good? My dear chap, are you aware that the guv’nor some southern or eastern county. A nuisance, undoubtedly, for owns the countryside for miles around? He has all sorts of | the man, when sober, was beyond question a force in the piggery. were busy livings up his sleeve—livings simply dripping with tithes—and He had charm and personality. Pigs liked him. Still, if he ne whirring can distribute them to whoever he likes. I know, because at wanted to resign office, there was nothing to be done about it.
: one time there was an idea of making me a parson. But I would But when, not a week later, word was brought to Lord Ems- axing from have none of it.’ worth that, so far from having migrated to Sussex or Norfolk or or you, my The Reverend Rupert’s face cleared. ‘Freddie, there’s somce- Kent or somewhere, the fellow was actually just round the corner ung Hearts thing in this.” in the neighboring village of Much Matchingham, serving under 3eefers, old “You can bet there’s something in it, old chap,” said Freddie. the banner of Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe of Matchingham Hall,
“But how can I ingratiate the scales fell from his eyes. He realized that black treach- ; myself with your father?” ery had been at work. George Cyril Wellbeloved had sold vrhole thing “Perfectly easy. Cluster himself for gold, and Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, hitherto ift,’ a poor tound him. Hang on his looked upon as a high-minded friend and fellow justice of the ater of rich every word. Interest your- peace, was in reality that lowest of created things, a lurer he country self in his pursuits. Do him away of other people’s pig men. mysterious little services! Help him out And there was nothing one could do about it. If with the of chairs .. . Why, great Monstrous! But true. r, and they Scott, I’d undertake to in- So deeply was Lord Emsworth occupied with the con- id then he gtatiate myself with a man sideration of this appalling state of affairs that it was only eating tiger if I gave my when the knock upon the door was repeated that it reached mind to it. Pop off and pack his consciousness. ds a sharp the old tooth-brush, and I’ll “Come in,” he said hollowly. He hoped it was not his 00 glad to g9 and get the guv’nor on niece Gertrude. A gloomy young woman. He could hardly especially the phone.” stand Gertrude’s society just now. trial. But It was not Gertrude. It was Beach, the butler. , a wholly At about the time when “Mr. Frederick wishes to speak to your lordship on the any of the . is pregnant conversation telephone.” heart and was taking place in London, An additional layer of grayness fell over Lord Emsworth’s W. 1, far away in distant spirit as he toddled down the great staircase to the telephone- Shropshire Clarence, ninth closet in the hall. It was his experience that almost any 1or’s never Earl of Emsworth, sat brood- communication from Freddie indicated trouble.
ing in the library of Bland- ! But there was nothing in his son’s voice as it floated over ings Castle. the wire to suggest that all was not well. “Hullo, guv’nor.” 41
42
“Well, Frederick?’’
“How’s everything at Blandings?”
Lord Emsworth wasnot the man to exhibit the vultures gnawing at his heart to a blabber like the Honorable Freddie. He replied, though it hurt him to do so, that every- thing was excellent.
“Good oh!” said Fred- die. “Is the old doss- house full up at the mo- ment?”
“Tf,” replied his lord-
ship, “you are alluding °° to Blandings Castle, there is nobody at present stay- . ing here except myself and your cousin Gertrude. Why?” he added in quick alarm. ‘Were you think- ing of coming down?”
“Good Lord, no!” cried his son with equal horror. “T mean to say, I’d love to, but just now I’m too busy with Dog-Joy.”
“Who is Popjoy?” ve , as
“‘Popjoy? Popjoy? ms ; Oh—ah, yes. He’s a pal of mine and, as you’ve plenty of room, I want you to put him up fora bit. Nice chap. You'll like him. Right ho, then, I’ll ship him off on the three-fifteen.”
Lord Emsworth’s face has assumed an expression which made it fortunate for his son that television was not yet in operation on the telephone systems of England, and he had just recov- ered enough breath for the delivery of a blistering refusal to have any friend of Freddie’s within fifty miles of the place, when the other spoke again.
“He’ll be company for Gertrude.”
And at these words a remarkable change came over Lord Emsworth. His face untwisted itself. The basilisk glare died out of his eyes.
“Lord bless my soul! That’s true,” he exclaimed. ‘That’s certainly true. So he will. The three-fifteen, did you say? I will send the car to Market Blandings to meet it.”
Company for Gertrude? A pleasing thought. A fragrant, refreshing, stimulating thought. Somebody to take Gertrude off his hands occasionally was what he had been praying for ever since his sister Georgiana had dumped her down on him.
One of the chief drawbacks to entertaining in your home a girl who has been crossed in love is that she is extremely apt to go about the place doing good. All that life holds for her now is the opportunity of being kind to others, and she intends to be kind if it chokes them.
For two weeks Lord Emsworth’s beautiful young’ niece had been moving to and frothrough the castle with a drawn face, doing good right and left; and his lordship, being handiest, had had to bear the brunt of it. It was with the first real smile he had smiled that day that he came out of the telephone-closet and found the object of his thoughts entering the hall in front of him.
“Well, well, well, my dear,” he said cheerily. “And what have you been doing?” :
There was no answering smile on his niece’s face. Indeed, looking at her, you could see that this was a girl who had forgotten how to smile. She suggested something symbolic out of Maeterlinck.
“T have been tidying your study,
Uncle Clarence,’’- she replied list- lessly. “It was in a dreadful mess.”
Lord Emsworth winced as a man of set habits will who has been
Company for Gertrude
remiss enough to let a Little Mother get at his study while his back is turned, but he continued bravely op the cheerful note.
“T have been talking to Frederick on the telephone.”
“Yes?” Gertrude sighed, and a bleak wind seemed to blow through the hall. “Your tie’s crooked, Uncle Clarence.”
“T like it crooked,” said his lordship, backing. “] have a piece of news for you. A friend of Frederick’s js coming down here tonight for a visit. His name, | understand, is Popjoy. So you will have some young society at last.”
“T don’t want young society.”
“Oh, come, my dear.”
She looked at him thoughtfully with large, somber eyes. Another sigh escaped her.
“Tt must be wonderful to be as old as you are, Uncle Clarence.”
“Eh?” said his lordship, starting.
“To feel that there is such a short, short step to the quiet tomb, to the ineffable peace of the grave. To me, life seems to stretch out endlessly, like a long, dusty desert. Twenty-three! That’s all I am. Only twenty- three. And all our family live to sixty.”
“What do you mean, sixty?” demanded his lordship — with the warmth of a man who would be that his next birthday. “My poor father was seventy-six when he was killed in the hunting-field. My uncle Robert lived till nearly ninety. My cousin Claude was eighty-four | when he broke his neck trying to jump a five-barred gate. My mother’s brother : Alistair-——”
“Don’t!” said the girl with a little shudder. “Don’t! It makes it all seem so awful and hopeless.”
Yes, that ‘was Gertrude; and in Lord Emsworth’s opinion she needed company.
The reactions of Lord Emsworth to the young man Popjoy, when he en- countered him for the first time in the drawing- room shortly before din- ner, were in the begin- ning wholly favorable. His son’s friend. was an extraordinarily large and powerful person with a frank, open, ingenuous face about the color of
h\ a, must be wonderful to be as
old as you are, Uncle Clarence,” “To feel there is such a short step to the grave.”
said Gertrude.
‘ude
at his study
1 bravely on
> telephone.” wind seemed o0ked, Unele
backing. “{ F rederick’s is His name, I some young
arge, somber
yu are, Uncle
t step to the
> grave. To
a long, dusty
Inly twenty-
his lordship
that his next
six when he Robert lived
s eighty-four |
a five-barred
the inside of a salmon, and he seemed a little ner- yous. That, however, was in his favor.
It was, his lordship felt, a pleasant surprise to find in one of the younger gen- eration so novel an emotion as diffidence.
He condoned, therefore, the other’s trick of laughing hysterically even when the subject under discussion was
‘ the not irresistibly ludicrous
one of slugs in the rose- . He excused him for pearing to find something outstandingly comic in the statement that the glass was
going up. abe And when, springing to
his feet at the entrance of
Gertrude, the young man performed some complicated steps in conjunction with a table covered with china and photograph frames, he jomed in the mirth which the feat provoked not only from the visitor but actually
’ from Gertrude herself.
Yes, amazing though it must seem, his niece Ger- trude, on seeing this young Popjoy, had suddenly burst intoa peal of happy laughter. The gloom of the last two weeks appeared to be gone. She laughed. He laughed. The young man laughed. They proceeded down to dinner in a perfect gale of merriment, rather like a chorus of revelers exiting after a concerted number in an old-fashioned comic opera.
And at dinner the young man had spilt his soup, broken a wine- glass and almost taken another spectacular toss when leaping up at the end of the meal to open the door. At which Gertrude had laughed, and the young man had laughed, and his lordship had laughed—though not, perhaps, quite so heartily as the young folks, for that wine-glass had been one of a set which he valued.
However, weighing profit and loss as he sipped his port, Lord Emsworth considered that the ledger worked out on the right side. True, he had taken into his home what appeared to be a half- witted acrobat; but then, any friend of his son Frederick was bound to be weak in the head, and, after all, the great thing was that Gertrude seemed to appreciate the newcomer’s society. He looked forward contentedly to a succession of sunshiny days of peace, perfect peace with loved ones far away; days when he would be able to work in his garden without the fear, which had been haunting him for the last two weeks, of finding his niece ping wanly at his side and asking him if he was wise to stand about in the hot sun. She had company now that would occupy her elsewhere.
Is lordship’s opinion of his guest’s mental deficiencies was strengthened late that night when, hearing footsteps on the
: terrace, he poked his head out and found him standing beneath
his window, blowing kisses at it. At the sight of his host he appeared somewhat confused. vely evening,” he said, with his usual hyena-esque laugh. Ter—I thought or, rather, that is tosay——— Ha. ha, ha!” is anything the matter?” No, no. No. No, thanks,no. No. No, no. I—er—ho, ho, *—Just came out for a stroll, ha, ha!” Lord Emsworth returned to his bed a little thoughtfully. PS some premonition of what was to come afflicted his ous mind, for, as he slipped between the sheets, he But gradually, as he dozed off, his equanimity became
‘
shivered. Testored.
G,"*Rupert dashed for- ¥ ward, but the steps ee ng shut up like a pair of scissors; the next thing he knew Uncle Clarence was sitting on the grass.”
Looking at the thing in the right spirit, he saw it might have been worse. After all, he felt, the mists of sleep beginning to ex- ert their usual beneficent influence, he might have been enter- taining at Blandings Castle one of his nephews, or one of his sisters, or even—though this was morbid—his younger son Frederick.
In matters where shades of feeling are involved, it is not al- ways easy for the historian to be as definite as he could wish. He wants to keep the record straight, and yet he cannot take any one particular moment of time, pin it down for the scrutiny of posterity and say, ‘““This was the moment when Lord Emsworth for the first time found himself wishing that his guest would tum- ble out of an upper window and break his neck.”
To his lordship it seemed that this had been from the begin- ning his constant day-dream, but such was not the case. When, on the second morning of the other’s visit, the luncheon-gong had found them chatting in the library and the young man, bounding up, had extended a hand like a ham and, placing it be- neath his host’s arm, gently helped him to rise, Lord Emsworth had been distinctly pleased by the courteous attention.
But when the fello~- did the same thing day after day, night after night, every time h caught him sitting; when he offered him an arm to help him across floors; when he assisted him up- stairs, along corridors, down paths, out of rooms and into rain- coats; when he snatched objects from his hands to carry them himself; when he came galloping out of the house on dewy evenings laden down with rugs, mufflers, hats and, on one occa- sion, positively a blasted respirator—why, then, Lord Emsworth’s proud spirit rebelled. He was a tough old gentleman and, like most tough old gentlemen, did not enjoy having his juniors look upon him as something pathetically helpless that crawled the earth waiting for the end.
It had been bad enough when Gertrude was being the Little Mother. This was infinitely worse. Apparently having con- ceived for him one of those unreasoning, (Continued on page I 76)
MUSSOLINI »
ag
‘The Licteecs of dialy says:
HILE disagreements are inevitable, both parties to a — marriage should be disciplined to realize that, despite —
disagreements, they have got to get along together and in the full knowledge of that principle they w/// get along.
@, The man and woman can get along if each does his duty to the other.
@In the case of disputes in which there is bound to be an ap- parently unsolvable clash, ¢ is the duty of the woman to accede to the mandates of the man if they are not in conflict with her other primary duties, and the man’s privilege to elicit such obedience.
By His Excellency
HERE are tendencies in modern civilization which
threaten the integrity of the family. Urbanism, the
misplacements caused by the industrial organization and
the call of women into the professions have made inroads into the quiet functioning of the family cluster. The fashion of woman seeking a career, without first fulfilling her duty of motherhood, has caused family derangement in the so-called better and more intellectual classes. The abandonment of agri- cultural life and the exodus from the villages to the large cities have reacted adversely on the normal relation which should exist between the sexes.
There has been a tendency away from the natural and simple family organization and this anomaly is bound to bring ill if allowed to assume even moderate proportions. The break-up of the family is an evil which leads to the displacement of the fundamental units of the state and thus inevitably will cause deviation from its proper conformity.
Conditions must be created which will make a natural healthy family life possible, which will permit the mother to perform her noble mission with no excessive hardship and bring up her children in wholesome and healthful surroundings. The problem of the sterilizing influence of crowded and congested housing in the cities, the tendency to shirk the responsibility of bearing children and of keeping a family, and the destructive effects of the transfer of the woman from the home to the industrial es- tablishment and the professions must be met with effective treatment ridding the body politic of the evils which they engender.
In the first place the institution of marriage must be upheld in its entirety. Two thousand years of trial and testing have given ample proof that the monogamous marriage is the one most ideally adapted to insure the stability of the modern state and family. Even laying aside all religious considerations which enter into the con- summation of a Christian union of man and wife, there is abundant demonstration that, for the permanence of society in its most effective and homogeneous form, the establishment of the principle of one man, one wife, has given the most salutary results.
While polygamy may have had some climatic or sociological basis in other times, the conditions of life were different. Polyg- amy prevailed in a primitive civilization, when the earth was one vast expanse of uncultivated soil, when there were no cities og no real state, for the patriarch was head of the tribe, the only
existing hierarchy. The patriarch might well have had many branches of family but the need for a coherent whole and a strongly centralized grouping of all the families was not apparent, for the space was unlimited and his enemies were more or less his own size.
Today we have but to examine the status of marriage in several polygamous countries and measure the results deriving there- from. Nowhere in the world is there a society so virile and so stable as that prevailing in Christian countries, which can but point with unmistakable certainty to the fact that it is the steady- ing and strengthening influence of one man for one wife and vice versa.
Plurality of wives or promiscuity of concubines weakens the structure of the family, robs it of the manifold virtues which the monogamous state brings with its sole father and one mother. As a firm foundation for the society of the state, the monogamous marriage, with its home and its family, provides the soundest basis for the knitting together of all the elements.
Marriage is a sacred trust. It is a trust bestowed not alone by the prevailing religions but by the state. It is incumbent upon the individual not only from a duty to the state but also by divine will. If we should disregard all the psychological and biological impulsions which throw man and wife together, there is still the duty devolving upon him to protect and promote the interests ot his state and his fellow man, a duty which makes it compelling that marriage should form part of his life and should be entered into with the same sincerity and sense of obligation as all other duties to the state. :
Without marriage as we conceive it in Christian countries, there is every likelihood that the strong family ties now existing would disintegrate, as has been demonstrated amply in Russia, and the state would tread an insecure path based on shifting in- secure units, lacking homogeneity and not bound by the bonds which true family life inculcates. :
How can a state countenance any encroachment on the invid- lability of the family? It is there the consciousness of nationality — and religion is first instilled. It is the first ground wherein are
' planted the seeds from which grow the very life and power
the individual. a
Here is where the child learns that he is an Italian, an Americal, a Christian, a worshiper of the sun. It is even more than that it is where he is made an Italian or Christian; where he first
to a spite 1d in
ther. ap-
le to other
“NLC.
e had many whole and a ot apparent, re or less his
ge in several riving there- virile and so lich can but s the steady- vife and vice
weakens the es which the one mother. nonogamous he soundest
not alone by mbent upon Iso by divine id biological re is still the > interests ot t compelling 1 be entered as all other
n countries, now existing y in Russia, . shifting in- y the bonds
n the invio-
f nationality —
wherein are ad power
n American, —
e than that: ere he first
acquires that vast body of precepts and folk-lore of his people, which becomes part and parcel of his person, makes him what he isto be and creates the motive power of his conduct through- out his life.
It is the arch-master of his personality, bringing out his hidden powers to fulfil their best handiwork and molding him in the fashion of his people’s traditions, handed down from generation to generation around the hearth, on his mother’s knee and under his father’s counsel. Family, church and school model him, but the greatest of these is the family.
We have but to study the history of the Jews since the great dis- persion at the beginning of the Christian era. Here was a people whose devotion to family was deeply embedded in their national traditions.
A whole family code had been evolved through the centuries of their existence which defined family behavior in every conceivable cwcumstance. Emphasis was placed on the duty of all the members of the family—father to the children, the husband to the wife, wife to husband, mother to children, through the whole fabric of family life.
The code was interwoven in the Jewish race, so that wherever there was a Jewish family, there also would be the unbroken traditions and precepts of the Jewish faith and law, the essence of Jewish national life crystallized in every single Jewish family. When the great dis- persion came and the Jews were scattered to the four corners of the earth, wherever a single Jewish family went there went also the accumulated Jewish lore of twenty centuries.
The larger the family the more virile the spirit inculcated in all the children. Families in which each child has to play a part—to learn the ebb and flow of family life by having to give up, to conciliate as well as defend his rights in a fair brotherly way—are conducive to the rearing of children who understand the give- and-take principle in life. They know how to meet the world, to assert themselves, and then to forbear when occasion demands.
A child brought up alone in a family, pampered and petted, given all that he asks for without effort on his part, is having his Way paved to become either a bully or a mollycoddle. The child needs the buff and rebuff as well as the affection of his brothers and sisters; he needs the adverse cross-currents of life to strike him in the
family, where, though he may feel that life is hard for him, it will not
be as hard as it would be if he must be brought to know adversity by g foisted suddenly on a hard and unrelenting world. influence of his family associations is stronger than those
iy ¥< ~ re 5 “3 i. Re.
@.Muassolini and his Family on a picnic.
ncy| Benzto MUSSOLINI
of the school or of his first gang. He looks to his parents first for guidance and protection, and relies on the way they lead him and direct his path more than he does on any other influence. The home, from the beginning, he looks upon as his, his natural birthright, the source of supply for all his little needs, both physi- cal and spiritual.
How can the influence of the family ever be measured? It transcends that of any other source, molding the career, creating loyalties and dislikes, ministering religion, inculcating patriotism and fostering the triumphant spirit of pride of race. It is the great force binding all the spirits of the nation into a harmonious whole, for from its hearth have been kindled the first flames of those devotions for which the child grown to manhood will be ready to lay down his life.
HERE is no divorce in Italy, nor will there be. Divorce can have no other effect than to weaken the family bonds, to de- compose the fine structure of loyalties and devotions which is the heritage of healthy family life. Divorce is truly an evil, where the greatest sufferers are the children and the state, while the bene- factors in a large number of cases succeed in throwing off a re- sponsibility they should have faced with fortitude and resolution. The marriage bond should be established firmly, and setting out on a career of marriage, the couple should make up their minds that their union is for life. This principle once fixed and accepted, there can be no turning back, there can be no vacillating or hair-splitting. The course is set and, once set, must be held. The relation between the couple is then held firmest, as each, determined that there can be no turning back, must resign and surrender wholly to a common cause. Should a mere possibility be suggested that this union is dissolvable, then the whole course of life is fraught with threats and probabilities. The union is then rendered weak by its own insecurity.
The marriage contract should be engaged in with due care for its importance and due regard for the high purpose of its function. Marriage is not a travesty on life. It cannot be made the subject for pleasantries in the columns of the daily newspapers, or the target for farcical thrusts on the stage. Actors and actresses blessed with simple mediocrity in the drama often find humor to be exploited in references to the married state or to the man with a family.
The social conscience must be made (Continued on page I 75)
The Story So Far:
HEN Magda Druce was found
murdered, her head battered
in, Martella Baring stood be- side her, with the bloody poker that had done the job next to her hand, you might say.
And Martella was bewildered; her head ached; she could remember nothing that had happened; she practically con- fessed that she must have committed the murder.
They were a theatrical company on tour, playing in the little town of Peridu, in Wales. Gordon Druce was the man- ager, Magda was his wife. This Mar- tella Baring had come to.them without experience, but she had had an encour- aging interview with the famous actor- manager, Sir John Saumarez. Druce took her on. She was good-looking, talented, and she played villainesses with a gusto that made her a favorite with audiences.
But she was a well-bred girl of good family, Martella; and with the exception of Doucie, wife of the stage-manager, Novello Markham, her high-handed ways soon set every woman in the com- pany against her. Especially Magda, a catty individual who always had a young man or two in tow. (The latest of these were supercilious Ion Marion and dark Handell Fane, who had lost his nerve in the war, and was desperately in love with Martella.)
Martella finally left the company. Druce promptly made his wife eat humble-pie and get her back. They had a grand recon- ciliation, and Martella invited Magda to supper at her boarding- house after the show. Everything looked lovely.
But Magda got her claws into Martella at that supper. Miss Mitcham, the boarding-house keeper, heard sounds of quarrel- ing. Druce was drunk that night. He came after his wife at three A.M. and made a scene at the front door. Miss Mitcham wouldn’t let him in. A small crowd collected to hear the row.
Shortly afterward there were screams from Martella’s room. Grogram, the constable, rushed in with little Novello Markham. There lay Magda, dead; and Martella, dazed, stood beside her.
What defense could Martella’s lawyers make? They got medical evidence to show that in a condition known as fugue people do things they are totally unaware of. There was a flask
46
Illustrations by
Sydney Seymour-Lucas
QC Ludovici turned down The foreman bowed. ““Wett
of brandy at the supper; it was empty afterwards; Martella’s_ breath, said one witness, smelled of spirits. Might she not, um-~ used as she was to spirits, have become excited; might she not,” angered by Magda’s taunts have gone into this fugue state and committed a brutal murder while utterly irresponsible?
But Martella denied drinking the brandy, and she denied that ~ Magda drank it. She refused to name the person they were dis- cussing at the time of the murder. Her whole high-spirited 4 manner was against her with the jury. Only one person was impressed favorably—Sir John Saumarez, who sat in the aude — ence. Sir John found himself strangely interested in this girl he knew so slightly. _
The prosecution made short work of the defense’s ingenious — evidence. When the jury retired, it looked as though Ma: Baring would hang.
s; Martella’s she not, ul-~ ight she not,” zue state and
ey were dis-
high-spirited
person was
in the audi-
this girl he
e’s ingenious |
gh Martella
wmb in a gesture two thousand years old. nathed our verdict then. It is unanimous.”
OLONEL PLENDARY, the mild competent eA foreman, surveyed his charges. “With your permission, ladies and gentle- YS } KR Y O V EL
/ men,” he began, “I propose that we should not Waste time going over all the arguments we’ve heard dur- ing the past two days. I propose that each member of the jury id give the decision he’s come to privately, and explain, if he tan, how he’s arrived at it. I’ll read out thenames. Ladies first. Mrs. Walker-Wheeler. What conclusion have you come to?” neat lady, with blue eyes and a pearl and turquoise brooch, Mse to her feet. “Guilty,” said the neat lady, and sat down. you wish to amplify that?” the foreman asked. ‘To give US your reasons?” "Oh, no,” said the lady. “I just think so, that’s all. I’ve thought so all along.”
by Clemence Dane and ALelen Simpson
48
The foreman made a mark against her name and read out the next on his list. “‘Miss Lampeter.”
This was a different matter. Miss Lampeter, who wore. a monocle and very well-cut- clothes, was feared by all the men; Mrs. Walker-Wheeler too would have feared her, but for the saving fact that Miss Lampeter was unmarried.
“Not guilty,” said Miss Lampeter, in the accents of Oxford. “T will give my reasons in sequence. First. The evidence of Doctor Stringfellow appears to me conclusive. Anyone who has followed the trend of modern psychological investigation must be aware——”
4E eleven jurors listened in silence to Miss Lampeter’s dogma. They reflected that all this education for women was a mistake.
“On these grounds, and after due consideration, I repeat that Martella Baring must be considered the victim of circumstances; and the verdict must be ‘Not guilty.’ ”
She sat down. The foreman coughed and called the next name.
“Mr. Preevy.”
This was a morose person who looked constantly at his watch, and drew designs on his nails in pencil during the less interesting evidence.
“Guilty,”’ he said. ‘She did it, of course. Doesn’t deny it.”
“Next, if you please; Mr. Harris,” said the foreman.
“Guilty,” answered the juror, “but I think she ought to be recommended for mercy.”
“We'll consider that separately, in due course, man. “Mr. Mallard?”
“T don’t like the notion of condemning a woman to death.”
“Well, of course,” said the foreman, “it need not imply that. We may recommend her to mercy, as Mr. Harris has reminded us.”
“Guilty, then,” said the juror.
The foreman made a note and called the next name. Smith.”
“T agree with Mr. Mallard that the whole business is hateful,”’ said this young man. “It’s too much responsibility to put on our shoulders. Either we’ve got to let her go free, and that’s not fair to the rest of the world if she’s guilty; or we’ve got to hang her, and that’s barbarous.”
“Tf we recommend her to mercy
“Mercy!”’ the young man almost screamed. ‘“That’s what you call it? Twenty years cut out of a life; the best years. It takes a civilized community to think out a punishment like that.”
“Your verdict, Mr. Smith?” said the foreman.
The young man smiled a wry smile. ‘‘Guilty,” lighted a cigaret with shaking fingers.
“Mr. Arthur?” inquired the foreman.
“Guilty. I don’t see what else we can say, on the evidence.”
“You, Mr. Ludovici?” the foreman asked.
“Tt is what I say, let her go,”’ responded Mr. Ludovici in rapid Italianate English.
“Not guilty?” the foreman inquired, his pencil held ready.
“Guilty, ves,” said Mr. Ludovici with an indulgent smile, “only not for hang. A woman, what is that? It is not like a man. She means no harm. I think she did right to kill this other. Woman should not be patient. That is no:good; such a woman, I would not give sixpence. But this one she take the poker, fight, strike—that is right, what I say.”
The foreman gazed helplessly at him. “I take it,” he said at last, ‘‘that what you mean me to understand is, ‘Not Guilty’?”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Ludovici, smiling.
“Five against and two for,” Miss Lampeter reckoned, it’s ten to six now.’
“Do you suppose,” inquired Mrs. Walker-W heeler of her neigh-
‘that we shall be kept very late? My husband will be ex-
”
”’ said the fore-
“Mr
” the foreman began.
said he, and
“and
bor, ‘ pecting'me “Well, if we can come to an agreement,” said the neighbor. “Personally, I share your opinion. I only hope these others won’t keep us here till all hours arguing.”’ . The foreman summoned him, and he broke off to say, “Guilty. I agree with Mr. Arthur. There’s no other verdict possible on the evidence, and the per- sonality of the girl.” “You’ve hit the nail on the head,” said Mr. Arthur. “That’s a woman you couldn’t take by surprise. She’s an actress born.” “Mr. Nethercoat, may I hear your opinion?” said the foreman. “Guilty, I suppose,”’ answered Mr. Netherccat. “‘Now, the last name; Mr. Zeal,” said the foreman. “{ agree with the majority,” said Mr. Zeal, precisely. ‘I’m sorry for the girl, personally, but that mustn’t be allowed to stand in the way. In my opinion the story of the fugue is genuine; and that being the case it is liable to recur, possibly with the same result.’
Enter Sir John
“Tf we let her go,” Miss Lampeter pondered, “and any
appened——”’
“That blood would be on our heads,” said Mr. Zeal.
“I say,” Miss Lampeter exclaimed, “it’s pretty awful!” ”
The jurors stirred uncomfortably, crossed their legs, r papers. It was pretty awful, they thought, but there need to dwell on it. The foreman, reading their wish, deci get the ordeal over. a
“Do you wish to modify your verdict?” he asked Miss peter.
“T suppose so,” she said. ‘I suppose I ought. Sent ni it’s all wrong, I know. It harms the future. That’s what ® to think of and not of the poor girl.’
Then, meeting the foreman’s eye, she nodded. He alte mark against her name. ;
“What about yourself, colonel?” asked Mr. Mallard. 4
“I share your opinion, ladies and gentleman,” said the man; “that means that with one exception we are agreed th accused woman is guilty of murder. The exception ig Ludovici. But I don’t think that he can maintain his attity the face of our decision.” 2
He looked at the dissenting juror, who felt the tension rounding him and answered: =
“TF you all agree, I agree. What you say, I do.”
He made a gesture two thousand years old, that was ] right of direct descent; a turning out and down of the Ci wards the ground. The foreman bowed slightly, and 2 the others. 4
“We've reached our verdict, then. It is unanimous. T) believe, ladies and gentleman, there’s one of us who doesn’ a load of responsibility at this moment. It only remains 4 us to decide whether there shall be a recommendation to1 We may do that by a show of hands. Those in favor——
Hands were lifted, counted; the foreman noted them. § persisted, and lay like a weight upon the room.
“T may tell the clerk of the court, then,”
“that we are ready?”
They gave assent; and still in that heavy silence he rang f
messenger. ‘
said the for t
IR JOHN SAUMAREZ, that well-known actor manager, missed his car at the park gates. He proceeded to the f ant house in Sloane Street where dwelt the one relative whom Sir John Saumarez could, as he put it to himsel himself. 7
For the Jonathan Simmonds he had been in his cradle¢ was not, had never been truly himself, and his Aunt Delia, the she refused to exchange Simmonds for Saumarez, had a appreciated his point of view.
Indeed the pair understood each other as much as they each other; and it was as natural to Sir John to take his tea his worries to his Aunt Delia, as it is natural to some men t their worries to somebody else’s Aunt Delia.
And Sir John | Saumarez was worried. Delia Simmonds ki when he came in and flung down the evening paper on a)
She gave him his opening. “Where have you come fr
“The Baring trial.” ‘4
“Oh, were you there again? bridge party. Well?”
“Convicted.”
“Of course. It was to be expected. Recommended ton though?”
“Oh, no.’
“Wasn't she? Didn’t they? I’m surprised.”
He fidgeted. “She had a manner, you know, in the wit box 24
“Brazen?” 3
“Not exactly. But she made the jury feel that she woul thank them if they acquitted her, and would think them f C if they convicted her. Magnificent, but not conciliatory.” 7
“My dear John, she must be mad.”
“Not a bit! Quite courteous and confoundedly sane. all, the etiquette of a court can’t seem very important 1% you've a rope round your neck—as she pointed out.” '
“Tf it weren’t a tragedy, it would be laughable.” 1
“Yes, but you didn’t feel like laughing,” said Sir John. “That was odd about the woman—her magnetism. She might made a great actréss—you felt it. You felt that she was @ fighter and that she had a right to use any weapon she And she did. It was quite a courageous effort, If she’d palpably innocent it would have gone down; but as she
palpably guilty it was an unfortunate sort of courage.
I couldn’t go today. I h
cs
a ‘and anys
eal. s
awful!”
r legs, mi there wa ish, decid
ed Miss]
Sentim what we!
He alte ad
lard.
said i B greed thal eption ig his attitu e tension ” at was fi the thum a nd add re
2
the wii :
she wo’ k them it liatory.”
sane. After ortant whet ”?
ohn. “That might have e was a bom n she could f she’d beet as she Was
GSir John said sternly: ‘Miss Mitcham, do you realize that your evidence, as it stands, will bang Miss Baring?’’ ‘‘But I had to tell the truth, didn't I?”
; “D’you know what she said at the end? When they asked her if she'd anything to say, all she said was—‘But it’s ridiculous! It’s just ridiculous. I can’t take it in!’ Just like that.”
A pause ensued which the lady did not break.
Did you follow the case?” said her nephew at last. She
nodded. “Nothing struck you?”
: Only that it was rather dreadfully obvious.”
t was obvious?” said Sir John sharply.
“The motive. Oh, it was very understandable. When you’ve always controlled yourself, you’d let go worse when you did let go. Rage—it would get hold of you, as influenza gets hold of very healthy people.”
“Then you think,” said her nephew slowly, “that willingly or unwillingly Martella Baring killed Magda Druce?”
“But she admitted that, my dear John.”
Sir John rose. Unconsciously and (Continued on page 209)
First ¢ Some NEW STORIES
he
N ALL hissixteen years Midge Macklin had known nothing ‘but horses. His father had been a veterinary and a good one—so good, in fact, that John T. Ban- field had taken him under contract to care for the Questa Rey Stables exclu- sively. Midge’s mother had died when he was five and as a result he had been thrown into a contact with his father much closer than most bovs achieve. And his father taught him much about horses.
They lived at the breeding-farm and it was here that Midge learned to ride at the age of four, when his father gave him a Welsh pony. Although at twelve he was making his spending- money, both before and after school, as an exercise boy, it never occurred to 7: n T. Banfield, watching the little gnome gallop- ing his thoroughbreds around his private race-track, that Midge might some day make a jockey.
Then Midge’s father died very suddenly, leaving nothing to Midge. There was nobody to look after the boy, so John T. Banfield took over the job—not because he was particularly charitable or fond of Midge, but because he saw in him a good, cheap exercise boy.
At sixteen Midge was as large as a normal boy of twelve. At full manhood he would be a flyweight. John T. Banfield saw that. Anybody could have seen it. But what he did not see was that Midge Macklin was extraordinarily intelligent, with a cold, calculating, logical intelligence not commensurate with his years and worldly experience. He was always asking why! Always studying cause and effect.
He was one of those strange human beings who, having an instinctive love for horses, is, in turn, beloved by horses.
Midge knew that a horse has no brains to speak of; that he can be habituated to a course of action but never taught it as one teaches a dog. He knew that horses, particularly thoroughbreds, are nervous and flighty and that to do their best work they must have the utmost confidence in and familiarity with their masters. So, in addition to exercising the Questa Rey horses and helping break the yearlings, he was forever fussing around the stables doing work he was not expected to do. He petted the horses, spoke to them as to warm personal friends; he had a habit of carrying a carrot or an apple into the stall with him; instinctively he found out the itchy spots on a horse and scratched them.
Nor could the most irritable and nervous of horses get a fight out of Midge. When they started cutting up he let them cut up, getting them in hand gradually and gently, soothing them, talk- ing to them, slapping them on the quarters, humoring them. He knew how easy it is to spoil a high-strung horse and he avoided that. The result was that when Midge rode a horse that had the reputation of being a bad one at the barrier, that horse reduced his monkey-shines at least fifty percent for Midge.
Midge had a profound affection and admiration for John T. Banfield, but John T. Banfield did not know it. To him Midge was just an exercise boy. And, while John T. Banfield was a shrewd racing man, he had failed to make a very important dis- covery regarding Midge. He did not know that Midge “had a clock in his head,” that he was a natural and uncanny judge of yaa time, a quality very precious in a jockey and without
which no jockey ever can be truly great. It remained for a woman ta discover this. Her name was Marion Henning and she was the daughter of old Dan Henning, who had a little farm up in Sonoma County, California, where he bred good horses and raced his likeliest prospects at Reno and Tia Juana. If they showed well he raced them elsewhere ae under lease to some good trainer with whom he divided the purses. Under this system he had made some money and twice he had developed stake-horses that had sold for huge prices. In g however, old Dan never had been more than three jumps abt of the sheriff, until shortly before his death. He had acquired at that time some twenty really good mares and a sire that was in demand. Old Dan’s racing string had been doing very for two years, his annual auction sales had been well at and bidding brisk, with consequent high prices, when cut him down. He was not, however, quite out of debt. : Now, Marion always had kept old Dan Henning’s breeding- records. With him she had made an exhaustive study of the thoroughbred horse, possibly because she had inherited all of her
divided the
twice he had In g
jumps ali
iad ac
ire that was
1g very Wi
ell at
en influenza
t.
’s breeding: tudy of the ed all of bet
father’s love for a horse, possibly be- cause old. Dan had not reared her to work for a living. At any rate, at twenty- two, she was unmar- ried and the mistress of Sycamore Rancho, and when her father’s attorneys suggested that she sell the farm and the horses, she
_ surprised them by announcing that she was going to carry on as her father had
a done. . ; :
- Like Midge Macklin, Marion Henning had brains, although in @ racing story it might be better to say that she had horse-sense. And’ she had a horse she thought very well! of, a three-year-old stallion named Pilgrim’s Pride. As a two-year-old he had won several good races and showed extreme promise; as a three-year- old, Marion felt certain he was going to redeem that promise. She had entered him for the Governor’s Handicap and as the season advanced the girl, deciding to cast about her for a good Jockey, went to Tia Juana to look the field over.
She had two horses running there on shares and one day
inen she went to the barn to see how they were getting on, she
found one of her horses with his head out the box stall, accepting
@ carrot from a small, wistful little boy, who rubbed the animal tween the ears and crooned to him:
So you’re the Great Big Devil at the post, are you, Don
? Just won’t behave, eh? I wish I had you in charge.
T'd make you do your stuff. Yes, and you’d be glad to do it, too.
Illustrations by Frank Hoffman and
G. C. Condon
deat,
ae ee wi 4 8 ene phe
ae 5 e F @Down the stretch they came,
md _ with Pilgrim gaining at wi ' every jump .. . Marion closed her eyes. When she opened them Banfield's
a entry had been nosed out.
If I ever get the leg up on you, big horse, we’ll certainly spoil the Egyptians. Yes, yes, old-timer. That carrot’s good, isn’t it? Have another. Nobody understands you, do they, Don Marco?”
Midge Macklin was.a sensitive boy. He felt an alien presence and, turning, saw Marion Henning smiling at him. He doffed his shabby cap.
“That’s my horse,” said Marion, by way of introduction.
The boy smiled. “You Dan Henning’s girl, miss?”
She nodded. :
“Dan was a friend of mine,” he explained. “He got me the leg up on Don Marco here last fall. I’m Midge Macklin.”
“How do you do, Midge. I’m glad to see you. I didn’t see that race, but Father told me that the way you booted Don Marco home was the best bit of riding he had ever seen.”
Midge smiled his gratitude at the compliment. easy. The old boy can step some, Miss Henning.”
“He’s never done it since,” she reminded him.
“‘He’s a misunderstood horse... He’s been spoiled. He’s per- mitted to act up at the post and he hasn’t been off to a really good start since that day I rode him. Of course he had the starter crazy that day, but, you see, I’d watched him a lot and I knew his habits. ‘
“He’d swerve away from the webbing and carry me back about forty feet before I could get him faced around again. Then the assistant starter would lead him up.and the instant he’d let go Don Marco would swerve again. Between ourselves, Miss Henning, I let him swerve. I wanted to get the starter mad and out of ‘patience; I knew that the instant Don Marco was in any half decent position for a half decent start, the gate would go up.
“That was
“Wii I know the starters. I’ve spent days sitting on the ’ fence studying them. So I kept my eye on the starter and I asked the assistant starter to keep his hands off Don Marco. Well,;:the horse carried me back maybe twenty yards, then I turned’ him and trotted him back slowly. The othér horses were nicely: lined up for a perfect start and I was delaying it. I kept my eye on Henderson—that’s the starter—and he waved me to come.on; as I got Don Marco’s head up to the tail of the horse on my right I saw Henderson’s mouth. --I knew he was going to say Come on—that the gate was going up, and I beat the gate a split second. Just gave the horse his head a little and clucked to him —and we were ofi—first.
“T rated him. I knew.he had reserve speed. The jocks that weren’t hopelessly out of it at the half had let me make the pace. I knew I was two seconds slow at the quarter; I was sure I was a second slow at the half. But I had the rail and I made my run before the others—not very much—just enough to get three open lengths to the good—and then I talked to this baby. He lasted. Lord, that was a race—and I’ve never had the leg up on *
horse since.” He gave Don Marco another carrot.
“Whom do you ride for, Midge?”
“Exercise boy for the Questa Rey Stables—Mr. Banfield. But I’m an apprentice jock now and sometimes I get a mount in a cheap race from outside owners. Mr. Banfield won’t trust me on a good horse.”
‘Would you like to ride Don Marco tomorrow, Midge? Perhaps I can arrange it.”
“T’d like to, miss—and I’ll make every post a winning-post.”
Marion arranged it—and Don Marco, who hadn’t been in the money for two months, acted decently at the barrier, beat it and was never headed. Just before Midge mounted Don Marco he handed Marion a paper on which he had written the time in which he intended to negotiate the quarter, the half, the three-quarters and the finish, When Marion glanced up from her split-second stop-watch and compared the time registered there with her jockey’s private estimate, she saw that he had guessed it within half a second!
“That boy shall ride Pilgrim’s Pride,” the girl decided. ‘“He’s a dear little chap. What if he is an apprentice rider? He’s like Don Marco. Nobody knows how really good he is. He has a clock in his head and he isn’t old enough to have acquired bad habits.”
She sought out John T. Banfield and introduced herself. ‘You have Moderator entered in the Gover- nor’s Handicap, I believe, Mr. Banfield?”
He nodded. :
“Is your boy Midge Macklin going to ride Moderator that day, Mr. Banfield?”
“Good Lord, no, my dear young lady. Midge is just a glorified exer- cise boy, although as an apprentice I let him haye a little experience riding for other owners occasionally. Some day he may make a jockey, but you may rest assured that when Moderator goes to the post I’ll have a real jockey up on him.”
“Midge gave Don Marco a good ride just now,” she defended.
“Nothing to write home about,
Miss Henning. He was in the company of his equals and _ inferiors. And. Don Marco isn’t a stake-horse, al- though unquestion- ably he was the best horse in that race.”
“You remember Pil- grim’s Pride?”
“Good two-year- old.”
“He’s mine and he’s entered in the Governor’s Handicap. I want to engage the ser- vices of Midge to ride him.”
“Well, that should be an added reason why Moderator should win the race,” he smiled back at her. ‘‘You’ve been warned.”
“I play my hunches,” she replied. “Is Midge under contract to you, Mr. Banfield?”
“Yes, he is,” Banfield lied.
“Want to sell his contract?”
“T might consider it.. How much am I offered?”
“Tell me how much you want?”
He considered. ‘Five thousand dollars for a contract that
You just won't behave, eh, Don Mat you do your stuff.’’ Marion smiled a
has five years to run,” he decided. “I have better boys coming up.” “I’ve bought the Midget,” she replied. “Give you my check the moment you hand me the contract duly assigned. “T’ll have to send away for it. See you in four or five days, Miss Henning.” The young mistress of Sycamore Rancho was at the bam when Midge came into his tack room. “I’ve bought you from Mr. Banfield, Midge,” she informed him enthusiastically. “T couldn’t help it. After that race you won with Don Marco simply had to have you and I bet twenty dollars for you om Don Marco, Midge. Five to one. Here’s your share of the loot, and she handed him a hundred dollars.
That was the first real money Midge Macklin had ever seen and his eyes popped and his throat worked as he gazed upon It. “Thanks, Miss Henning,” he mumbled.
“You belong to the Sycamore Rancho, Midge,” she went om “You’re going to ride Pilgrim’s Pride in the Governor’s Handicap.
“WHAT?” The world was slipping out from under Midge.
She repeated the promise.
n smiled at
better boys
on Marco for you on of the loot,”
* ai Midge. “I wish I had you in charge. I'd make him. “That's my horse,’ she said by way of introduction.
“You’re going to trust me on Pilgrim’s Pride in the Governor’s dicap?”’ “Why not? But, of course, Midge, if you aren’t interest- ”
“Oh, miss, if I win that race——” He paused, unable to isualize such a glorious future as that would entail. ‘Well, P’ll give him a good ride, anyhow,” he ended. “If he’s a winner I'll win with him as handy as any jock on the Big Time could. He'll ve an apprentice allowance of five pounds in the weights and that will help. You’re awful kind to me, Miss Henning. ever so much. Did you say you’d bought me from
Mr. Banfield?”
“I’ve bought your contract, Midge. It has five years to run, and if you and I have any luck with my horses in those five 9 the deal may turn out to be a very profitable one for both 0! us.”
(How much did you pay him?”
_tm going to pay him five thousarid dollars.”
; He’s sold me, eh?” Midge’s voice was husky with emotion. Tliked Mr. Banfield. I thought he liked me. I didn’t think he’d
do that. I—I guess—he
thinks I don’t amount to
much.” There were tears
in the boy’s eyes. Then
suddenly his Celtic rage
flared, triumphant above
his emotion. ‘“That’s the
worst deal Mr. Banfield
ever put over,” he de-
clared, his voice taking a high shrill note. “I’ll show him whether I’m a jock or an exercise boy. Sell me, would he, like I was a broken-down selling plater? I’ll learn him.”
He turned and walked away.
The next morning John T. Banfield came to him. “Jump into my car, Midge,” he said affably. “I want you to drive into San Diego with me.”
At a lawyer’s office in San Diego John T. Banfield explained to Midge that he desired to give him a permanent position and a permanent wage and promote him from exercise boy to jockey. Fifty dollars a week for the first year (Continued on page 134)
5
By Kathleen
HEY had been married four
years and were in Paris
again,on what thenewspapers
rapturously called their ‘‘sec- ond honeymoon,” when they had a most dreadful quarrel.
It was dreadful, at least to Stanley. But he and Carolyn had had bitter altercations before, in their fifty months of wedlock, and ‘he had be- gun to suspect, before this, that she rather flourished on these violent outbursts of fury.
Oddly enough, in spite of her real emotion, she was always acting, too, at such times. Or rather, she was keenly alive ‘to their dramatic significance—alive to all the values of the situa- tion. She liked the part she had to play.
She liked to be beautiful, spoiled little Carolyn MacInnes, “the richest American girl,” quarreling beautifully, picturesquely, tearfully, in her perfumed and flowery and quilted and softly lighted bedroom—quarreling with Stanley Addison, her hus- band, who was ‘“‘millions of years” older than she, and dark, and silent, and bewildered, and humble and helpless, and one-fourth Jew and three-fourths Russian, and an American citizen.
“Tf it wasn’t that everyone in the world would laugh at me—would say ‘I told you so,’” she always stuttered, sooner or later in the altercation—‘‘do you think I’d stay with you a minute?”
Stanley himself got no pleasure, no excitement or stimulus from these scenes. He was not in the least humble or bewildered or helpless when Carolyn acted like this, but in the beginning he had been silent through sheer surprise, through sheer shame and embarrassment for her, and of late he had substituted for that feeling one of deep boredom.
It was supremely, miserably boring to have to listen patiently to that sharp, raging, dramatic voice, to watch that silk-clac body subsiding and writhing among the lace-and-orchid pillows, to see the bright mane flung back, and the red lips bitten, and the little hand with the soaked filmy handkerchief in it go to her eyes.
They had been married four years; they were on their “second honeymoon.” And Carolyn had created situations exactly like this on the original honeymoon. So that Stanley was hardly surprised by them any more.
He stood watching her, and thinking of their daughter, Marv MacInnes Addison, who was three years and two months old. A dark, silent, mysterious child, too tall for her three years, too broad, not in the least pretty. His child.
And behind Mary all the sorrow and suppression and philoso- phy of his mingled races.
If he deserted Mary, her mother would promptly marry again; marry someone like the painter at Palm Beach, or last summer’s college youth at Newport, or Horner Holliday who was right here with them in Paris. Any real consideration of desertion of Mary never crossed Stanley’s mind. His quiet, thoughtful, plain, dark little girl growing up with handsomer, gayer, typical 54
(OUSE
American children, under a stepfather—— No, he couldn’t countenance that. — So he only stood quietly, politely listening, when Carolyn was in one of her tantrums, and | was conscious of being deeply, profoundly bored.
The whole trip had bored him. Fame—his sort of fame—_ bored him profoundly. !
Stanley Addison was forty-one, but he seemed older. The past twenty-five years had been so many centuries in his develop- - ment from a shy, shawled, hungry, apprehensive boy who ‘had © crossed a gang-plank onto Ellis Island, at the age of sixteen.
He had not been humble or helpless, even then, but he ‘had been bewildered, and a little frightened. The city behind the Liberty Statue had seemed a big, a.scaring thing to the boy whose name was nat even remotely like Stanley Addison.
He had slept that first night on ‘some tumbled rags on ‘the floor of a dark inner room, with other persons—men, women and children—and had loved his bed. He had eaten for his ‘first meal in America a stale roll and some salt fish and a chocolate bar, and loved them, too. He had learned to say, “All ride”. and ‘“‘Wod,” andthe sound of them was as music in his ears.
and so conscious delight. No frozen roads and dim c huts full of rotting sores and empty stomachs here. No haggard faces blazing with hate and protest. Just work—and he loved work.
He loved his first peddling—his first push-cart. He was still wearing his emigrant clothes when he bought, for eleven dollars, his first piano. His fingers were still thin and oily, and his eyes still deep with remembered want and pain when he played another piano on a first magic evening, in a Bowery “nickel- odeon.”
Stanley changed his name after the war, when he was honor- ably discharged from the navy, at thirty. By this time he was known in all the music stores of upper Broadway, and his “Army Red Navy Blues” was whining away busily upon five milli phonographs, and being encored in every night club everywhere.
He spent all his evenings in an ornate apartment on Riverside Drive, with musical friends, sad, lean, clever young Russia Jews like himself, fiddling out new tunes at the piano, h catching at the moment’s mood in the big city—that was to be a key to the whole nation’s mood next year.
They were all more afraid of their new powers of money- making and of their successes than they ever had been of failure and poverty. Stanley paid two hundred and fifty dollars 4 month for his apartment, and always shut his eyes tight for @ second when the awful thought came to him that that meant three thousand dollars a year. Three thousand dollars! nothing to show for it. Families were living at home in comfort
F2 every step of his new road had been conscious ‘progress
jren, under
trums, and
of fame—
No haggard nd he loved
of money- en of failure y dollars 4 tight for 4 that meant ollars!—and e in comfort
Where was the real Carolyn, Stanley wondered. Where * was the woman, under the clothes and the laughter? He grew weary trying to find her.
A '
ay cud on one-tenth of that. Living, eating, iS APS 4 paying rent, dressing themselves on " ; hundred a year—— eS Then he wrote the score for “Tootsy-too.”” “= And between royalties and music sales, he made more than a million dollars. He could wear an evening easily, by this time; he could entertain well. Everyone in biggest city who did anything at all, players and writers and painters and book reviewers and song composers, knew him and liked him, and in his lonesome, quiet, mysterious way he was ular. But his eyes never lost their wise, cryptic, scrutinizing - He smiled, he spoke, he brought his attention to gushing young girls and bluffly congratulatory, admiring men, and he was not deceived. Stanley went to Europe every summer, the first time in the
Illustrations by Charles D. Mitchell
7 a Py
ima et +
= >
second cabin, afterward in the usual way and finally in luxurious suites with names, “the Louis XIV Suite,” “the Chinese Suite,” “the Empress Eugénie Suite.” He heard his music playing on board when he went on the ship in New York harbor, and heard it in all the restaurants and clubs in Paris, and at Cannes and Nice and Biarritz.
And all the time his success rolled up like a snowball. It was hardly warmer or more human to him. It made him uneasy. He kept depositing certain large sums in unshakeable banks or conservative securities. =
5
“Tf everything else went, I could live on that,”’ he would tell himself nervously. He determined, over and over again, that he would not sink his last thousands into an at- tempt to retrieve his fortunes, if a turn came some day in the tide of his achievements. He would not back a poor opera, hoping to get millions back, as so many play- wrights and composers did. He would be content.
Year after year he took the same ocean trip, with the same eager
* persons meeting him on board, and the same unreal, intimate talks with men he cared nothing for, in the smoking-room at night. He went to the same hotel in Paris, and the night clubs where they played his “Rolling Along Like a Poor Little Stone,” and gave away long-legged dolls with coarse painted faces.
And then came the same trip back, to the same men and women, and to the uproarious din- ners of welcome at home, with all the kindly, enthusiastic persons who “did things’—writers and re- viewers, painters and players—
apparently so glad to have him back! Apparently.
They changed, the individuals in this group, but there were always others, exactly like them, in their places. No one was ever missed; no one lasted long. Only Stanley Addison went on, lonely, remote, cryptic, quietly friendly, forever.
The professional world did not impress Stan, perhaps because he knew what a world of luck and mediocrity and hypocrisy it was. It demanded neither first-rate nor second-rate products—no, nor tenth-rate, either.
Any glib charlatan could deceive it; art and the drama and music and letters had their fashions, like hats, and he could feel no special respect for the man who happened to hit the fashion. Within a few months the play, the song, the book or sketch was forgotten, and the critics were = in full cry on a fresh scent.
le
G.''Can you come to us?’’ asked Kate. “I feel as if I had known all my life that that you lived,’ said Stanley, vty
we
bo HEELS
”— nS Ae
meed you so that—I dare ask you. I jou would come to us.’ ‘I never knew low. ‘'I would have hunted for you.”
Stanley Addison knew that before he was fifty these same persons would be repeating his name won- deringly: ‘Who is he? What did he ever do?” Any year—any month, he might begin to feel the change. He would not allow him- self to take either his associates or limself seriously.
To all this he was not vulnerable. But there was a spot where he was susceptible, all the more susceptible because he never suspected it— and when he was about thirty-five life found out this weak spot.
When he was thirty-five to his utter amazement society took him up, and that was different. He found society dull, but soothing and gratifying. Beautifully groomed la- dies, past youth, asked him to sit in their opera-boxes; they invited him to magnificent country homes, where men talked finance, and women nothing. They talked all the time about books and politics and
operas and persons, but lie _per- ceived that they said and knew nothing. He rather liked it; it was restful.
They lived in a world freed of money, trouble, ugliness or pain.
Carolyn MacInnes came home from Switzerland for midsummer holidays while he was visiting her father and mother. She was seven- teen. Stanley had never seen any- one at all like her.
Even at that age she was more sophisticated and more poised than her own mother; she spoke several languages, she was as much at home in Europe as in America. Carolyn played tennis and golf, rode superb- ly, liked bridge and billiards and cross-word puzzles and skating, knew everything that was to be known about cocktails and birth con- trol and companionate marriage.
She was terribly spoiled, of course, but prettily spoiled. To see her being arrogant and dictatorial with the men who groomed her horses or exercised her dog, was to see a fascinating (Continued on page = )
E WAS a little bent old man with a scraggly beard, and he lived in the basement of an ancient totter- ing house in the Faubourg St. Germain, on the edge of a quarter made fashionable by Americans who were rich or “artistic,” and sometimes both. The house was not quite in the quarter, for it turned its decrepit back upon rows of rookeries which housed the poor of Mont- parnasse. It was from these houses that the old man drew most of his trade, for he was an apothecary and his shop was so dark and so evil- smelling that only the poor who could not afford the prices of the glittering nightly lighted shops came to him for strange mixtures and nostrums. It was said that he was something of a necromancer, and that he brewed love philters and potions for restoring youth and even powders which, when burned, had the power of suffocating an enemy, though he be on the other side of the earth. It was known too that he sold drugs which had qualities more cer- tain of their effect: it was these powders which sometimes at- tracted well-dressed ladies and gentlemen into his little den beneath the turn of the stairs in the house on the Rue Jacquinot. He had been there always so far as anyone in the quarter knew. He held an ancient lease to which he clung, even after the quarter began to grow picturesque and fashionable, and the old house was renovated and had its front repainted like the face of an old harridan, by a Spanish proprietor with the wisdom to make it livable without destroying its picturesqueness. The house and the Apothecary seemed inseparable; either separated from the other would have seemed isolated and torn from its roots. As you entered, you sometimes caught a swift glimpse of a thick, dirty beard, from which gleamed two little rat-like eyes—all dimly seen in the shadows of the evil-smelling shop. And some- times you caught the queer light of another pair of eyes; they were the eyes of the Apothecary’s cat, a black unfriendly animal. There was no concierge in the house, for the Apothecary occu- pied the quarters which should have belonged to a concierge, and so it was a house in which you were quite free to do as you pleased because there was no one to watch you enter or leave. No one considered the Apothecary as human; no.one ever thought of his watching what went on in the house.
__ He was only a gnome who lived half underground and was Pe)
GT 've been robbed!’ cried Mrs. Brodman. ‘The big emerald I wore on my wrist . de
never seen after he put up his shutters with the fall of night.
The house attracted, one by one, persons whose mode of life | fitted into a scheme of living which did not include the prying eye of a concierge. First of all came a little dark man with tiny hands and feet, who wore bangles on his wrist, carried a Malacca stick “and spent his time at questionable cafés of the quarter. He occupied the top floor. And after him, to occupy the second, came Lady Connie Cheviott, a thin, white young Englishwoman, granddaughter of a duke, with dyed red haif, and weary old eyes, set in a too-hard face. And last of all came Daisy Sackville—boisterous, good-natured, buxom “Daisy.”
People said: “Have you seen the absurd ramshackle house where Daisy has moved?” Because everyone knew Daisy; was a sort of queen in that cosmopolitan, slightly shabby world that moved through the corridors of Ciro’s and the Ritz. Daisy was the friend of grand duchesses and exiled kings, demi-mon- daines and cheese manufacturers, bankrupt and bogus noblesse, millionaires and gigolos. In all that world she was a sort of queett reigning jointly with madness and folly and despair over 4 Kingdom.
over a
By Louis Bromfield who wrote “Carly Autumn” cad ee Good Woman”
Some said that Daisy was English in origin, but most people believed that she came originally by the long road of burlesque, yaudeville and the movies from Little Rock, Arkansas. Daisy herself never troubled to clear up the mystery. For the purposes of the world she was Daisy Sackville, a retired opera-singer. She had long ago lost any pretensions to a singing voice; indeed, when
she spoke, her voice sounded coarse and metallic.
Long ago Daisy had come to live by her wits. One day she was rich,
Illustrations
by Marshall Frantz
‘ not explain why.
and the next she had nothing but debts, and yet so great was
fame that there were certain restaurants and certain dressmakers
who considered it good advertising to feed and clothe Daisy with-
out any hope of payment. She always brought in her train dukes
and princesses with names that once had been glorious, and—
what was of greater interest to tradesmen—millionaires in chocolate or perfume and their lady friends.
Daisy’s success rested upon two gifts: first that she was born
a comic, and second that she had a great and overflowing animal
vitality—indeed, enough of vitality for herself and enough left
over to give that tired, despairing
world over which she reigned a
semblance of actual life. For
years, ever since the war and the
collapse of old Europe, Daisy had
been supplying vitality and enter-
tainment now in Rome, now on
the Lido, now on the Riviera,
now at Deauville or London, but
most of all in Paris, which was
the capital of her mad Kingdom.
And now at fifty-five Daisy, the indefatigable Daisy, the Daisy who was “always the life of the party,” had begun to grow
tired. There were days when she wanted passionately to lie in bed sleeping and eat- ing chocolates and reading cheap novels as she had done in the far-off, mys- terious, palmy days of her too-plump and voluptuous youth. But, tragically, there was no rest for Daisy. If she rested, perhaps even for a day, people would for- get her, and she would be faced only by poverty and a horrible old age.
She lived by keeping al- ways in the limelight. And so each day she had to forget that she was old and some- times suffered from rheuma- tism, and rising wearily, she would paint her face and touch up her hair and do
the agonizing exercises that were meant to reduce her figure. And a little later the Apothecary would see her pass through the evil-smelling hall—a bedizened, painted woman, past middle age, setting out to organize some féte or party to divert her mad King- dom.
The sense of her great weari- ness swept over her for the first time on the day she moved into the ancient house in the Rue Jacquinot. There was something in the atmosphere of the place, perhaps the centuries-old, musty
smell of the dim hallway, that oppressed her. Even after the trouble and confusion of moving there was no rest for her. She lay down for a few minutes and then had a bath and dressed and went out to dinnerand on to Hinky-Dink’s to hear the negroes sing.
It was dawn when she returned at last, and the Apothecary and the black cat were on the pavement engaged in taking down his shutters and washing his windows. It was the first time she had ever seen him, and the sight of his bent figure and dirty beard and bright, malicious old eyes gave her a fright; she could
59
60
Afterwards she told herself that it was because she was tired and because her vitality was terribly low at such an hour of the morning.
But the image of him remained—bent, crooked and dirty, with malicious prying eyes. It came to her sometimes in the midst of the gayest evenings when she sat telling risqué stories at Ciro’s, with a grand duke on her right and a millionaire on her left. She never saw him again, even in the gray light of the dawn, but only in the darkness of his dark little cave—a mass of matted hair pierced by two rat-like malicious eyes. It seemed to her that he ‘knew all the long history which she had managed to keep secret, that he was accusing her of things which no one could possibly know save herself.
And she thought, ‘‘This is nonsense. I must not, I dare not let my nerves get the better of me—I, who have never had a nerve in my body. Truly, I’m strong as a horse.”
But the image did not go away, and she tried to destroy it by jesting at it. She had a way—the way of people who live by their wits—of turning poverty and other disadvantages into capital, and so she sought to make of the dirty little Apothecary a bit of “atmosphere” which lent luster to herself. When people asked her about the picturesque and amusing old house in which she had taken an apartment, she described it with a great deal of noisy wit, always adding, “But the best of all is the old man— the Apothecary—who lives in the basement. He’s been there forever, since the house was built.”
But the mention of him had, just the same, a way of bringing a little cloud of depression. He came presently to occupy a place in Daisy’s scheme of things very near to that of the corpse which the ancient Egyptians brought in during the midst of a feast to remind them of the nearness of death. His eyes were not pleasant because they seemed to go about with you every- where. callin
And among the grand dukes and harlots, profiteers and gigolos of Daisy’s mad world, the Apothecary came to be a character. People who had never seen him spoke of him as ““Daisy’s Apothe- cary.” He came to be a joke at dinners at Ciro’s and the Ritz. One heard of him in the palaces of Rome and on the beach at Deauville.
As Daisy grew older and more weary, she had sudden mo- ments when, looking in the mirror while she paifted her sagging face, her hand would pause suddenly, and fascinated by her own reflection, she would find herself saying, “That thing in the mir- ror is Daisy Sackville—that battered, decaying, tired old woman who was born Tessie Dunker in Little Rock, Arkansas.”
And one by one all the facets of a many-sided past—her vices, her betrayals, her sins—would have a way of rising up out of the funeral wrappings of forty years and returning to her in a horrid, fascinating procession. It was a terrible experience—this seeing oneself for the first time, especially if, like Daisy, you had always lived noisily in the moment without ever giving a thought to the past.
But in the end she would always dab on a trifle more rouge and rise quickly from her dressing-table, saying to herself, “After all, I am Daisy Sackville. Everybody has heard of me. My friends are the flower of Europe—the cream of the old-world nobility.” And she would recite-to herself such names as the grand duke’s and Lady Connie Cheviott’s, and the Princesse de Vigne’s and the Duke of Sebastiola’s. oe
“The flower of Europe” was a phrase which consoled her. She thought of it frequently, especially at the times when she kept seeing the beady, rat-like eyes of the Apothecary.
N THE night of the same day that Daisy moved into the O house on the Rue Jacquinot she had, however, a stroke of . luck. As she entered_the bar at Ciro’s she caught’a’ gliriipsé of ©. a dark, familiar young face, a face which troubled her for a moment until her amazing memory—the memory which had
saved her so many times—placed it. She knew suddenly, in a quick flash. It was Tony Markham—young, rich, idle, some- what of a ne’er-do-well, an excellent dancer and a sportsman. She could not say at once why she was glad to see him there; she only experienced a swift sense of pleasure at the sight of his youth and his vigorous young figure, and then a sudden swift thought that she could make use of him in her world.
She had come of late to pounce upon anything that was young and not tired. She could feed his youth to her weary world; there were women in it who would adore this handsome young Ameri- can. And so, sweeping forward royally, all her false jewels aglitter, she approached him, crying out in her hearty, booming voice:
“Why, Tony Markham! When did you turn up in Paris?”
The Skeleton at the Feast .
The boy looked at her for a moment, puzzled, and then said quickly, “Oh, hello, Daisy!’ and took her hand. a They really knew each other scarcely at all; she had seen him as a boy of nineteen at Faley’s in Palm Beach before she foun the place a little too unpleasant for her; but it was im a resist the cordiality of the great Daisy. They used first names at once. ia She said, “I’m dining with the Duke of Sebastiola’s party. You must join us.” And she recited the names, splendorous, high-sounding names famous in the history of Europe, of alj those who were in the party. To be sure, there was also a movie actress of dubious reputation and a man suspected of espiona: during the war and a decayed demi-mondaine, but she overlooked these. “But I can’t,” he said. “You see, I’m waiting for a friend of mine—a girl. I’m showing her the sights of Paris. I’m Waiting for her now.” : A bright, hard look came into Daisy’s too-brilliant eyes. “Why, bring her, of course,” she said. “We'd love to have her.”
ONY hesitated. He even blushed a little. ‘I don’t think jt
would be a success,” he protested. ‘‘You see—you see— well, she wouldn’t be at home in sucha party. You see, she’s only twenty—she’s jeune fille.”
For a moment something, perhaps the mention of age—“only twenty”—or the words “jeune fille’ gave Daisy a bad turn, } robust figure. seémed to wilt a little but she recovered her quickly, saying, “I understand. Well, you must join us another party. Where are you staying?”
He wrote his address on a card, and taking it, she said, must come and see me some day soon. I live in the most fase ing house. Give me a card and I'll write the address scribbled hastily. ‘“There’s no concierge. I live on the firs In the basement there’s only an apothecary—but don’t him when you come. He’s a little cracked and unpleasant must tell you about him sometime. But I must go. Bur calling me.” * So . oa
And with a trill of professional laughter, she swept throu crowd like a ship to where a tall sallow duke stood beckonin her. Daisy called dukes by pet names. Bunny was a gra
A little while after she had gone the girl whom Tony aw came through the whirling door, and dazzled for a second glare of brilliant lights, she stood staring about her: ‘She young and slender and blond with the look, Tony told her: of his shamed sentimental moments, of a young bride. He were blue and candid, with a look of wonder in them, as4 found all this world about her fascinating and unreal. . An there was a curious air of assurance, even of self-confidence her, and an odd look of dignity. . Blond and lovely in her er coat, one noticed her at once. es
But Tony saw her first of all.
There are at Ciro’s two rooms: one is right and one is wh The right room is crowded with the fashionable, the notor the freakish, the bankrupt; it is small and people sit back to! in order to squeeze into it. » There are people who will not di Ciro’s if they can’t have a table in the “right” room. The wW room is filled comfortably by the nonentities and by those do not “know.” 3
Tony had a table for two in the right room. Daisy’s | occupied the largest and most resplendent table.. The party had said, was given by the Duke of Sebastiola; but she did say it was paid for by the wife of an American millionaire ¢ manufacturer who wanted to know. ‘the flower‘of Europe.”
The two tables were near each other, and throughout the ning Daisy watched the two young,people as if they had am fascination for her.’ There’ was something spidery in her havior. She pointed them out to the Duke of Sebastiola, a leat, handsome, sallow man, with a tiny blue-black mustache and monocle, who took a great interest.
“They are so young and fresh,” he said mockingly. ‘But th won’t last long. You must arrange to have me meet Daisy.” And fixing his monocle for a better look, he added, “She is adorable.” He drew out the word “adorable,” for he was Italian and spoke with an accent.
Before Tony and the girl left, Daisy went over to their table. “Tony dear,” she said, “I’m giving a party on Saturday and you must come.” 2
Again he refused, but he introduced the girl. Her name W# Ann Masterson.
“What a lovely name, my dear,” said Daisy. “Are you@ relation of the Syosset Mastersons?”
“Yes,” said the girl. “He’s my uncle.”
st and then said
had seen hi fore she rs > Impossible to first names at
stiola’s party, , splen
Kurope, of all S also a movie d of espiona ge she overlooked
for a friend of I’m waiting
t eyes. ‘ e her.”
don’t think it ee—you see— see, she’s only
of age—“only oad turn. Her overed herselt
oin us soon in
he said, “You most fascinat- address” —she the first floor,
stiola, a lean,
stache and 4
y. a a eet the
e added, “She
” for he was
o their table. rday and you
er name Was
“Are you 4
GQIt was said that Daisy's Apothecary was something of a necromancer and that he brewed love phil- ters and potions for restoring youth . . . Noone considered him as human. He was only a gnome.
“I know them all well,” said Daisy with an irresistible en- n. “It makes such a difference, knowing one’s relations, doesn’t it? Perhaps you'll come on Saturday?” She can’t,” said Tony. ‘‘We’re going to the same dinner.”
Then, for the first time, Daisy’s claws showed a little. She gave the boy a look which said, “You'll gain nothing by opposing Mein that way. You may regret it. Daisy Sackville is not to be snubbed.”
With a sweet smile, she said, “Well, another time, perhaps.” And bidding them good night, she went back to join the dukes and . demi-mondaines, who were moving on to another
y.”
The girl looked after her with amused blue eyes. ‘So that’s the great Daisy,” she said.
“Yes, she’s one of the sights of Paris, but I’d keep clear of her if I were you.”
“T feel sorry for her.”
Tony laughed. “Sorry for Daisy! Great heavens, why?”
“She’s old and tired,” said the girl gravely.
“Why, Daisy loves this life. She’s never been tired in her life. She doesn’t dare to risk being tired.”
“That’s just it.”
‘Are you disappointed in her?” Tony asked.
“No—I’d never thought about her (Continued on page 119)
At last—a designer who realizes that it takes a beautiful girl to make any gown look like a million dollars. He has cabled me from the steamer to be ready to Start work as a mod- el in the morning.
Q.The very first day I per- suaded Mrs. Fair, Rich and Forty-around-the-hips that she would look like a per- fect 36 in Monsieur Henri’ s most expensive gown. Of course she couldn't even get into it with the aid of a shoe-horn but Henri will make an enlargement for her that will fool ber completely.
Henri said I was such a good lit tle girl to help him sell that ex- pensive gown that he wanted to do something to show his appreciation. So I said, ‘Let's do what all the other good little boys and girls do. Let's go to a night club.”
G.Henri’s gowns must be seen to be appreciated $0 . I decided to please him still further by wearing — one of them that evening. It pays to advertist | and perhaps more orders would be forthcoming. |
GSuch enthusiasm! Henri was actually angry because I wore the gown. He was afraid something would happen to it. So I said, ‘‘Be yourself, Henri! You may design gowns but you don't wear them.”
@.Dancing with him was like dancing with a tailor’s dum- my. Even if I'd been a wax model I should never have melted in the warmth of his embrace. He was so afraid I'd spoil his old dress that he couldn't enjoy himself.
2 QI got a real taste of his tempera- & ment a little later—but I ask you how was I to know that the mere sight of my beauty would have such an upsetting effect on that dumb waiter? Anyway Henri was so angry that he insisted on dragging me home to Father. As if Father could y wearing pay for any damaged gowns. He's so @And so I suppose I've got to start read- advertise poor he even has to shave himself. ing want ads again. Henri probably : won't even give me a decent reference. com Men are such unappreciative creatures.
eciated 30
A
isticated
Story of a Very Modern Girl
ODO was voted the most sophisticated girl in college,”
Bob boasted proudly.
“The most sophisticated?” his mother asked, looking slightly bewildered. “When I was in college we voted for the girl who had the highest standards in her work. Of course times have changed. I supposed now that they’d vote on the prettiest, or the most popular. But the most sophisti- cated!” Margaret smiled a bit indulgently. “How could a young college girl be sophisticated?”
“Wait till you meet her!” Bob prophesied. ‘She’s got more poise .. . Gosh! You’re a peach, Mom, to have her out.” He gave Margaret an appreciative quick squeeze. “Makes a fel- low kind of nervous, though, to have his girl visit his family. Well’”—he ran his fingers through his thick blond hair, crushed on his hat—“T sure hope she likes you.”’
Oh, so it was Bob’s family who were to be on trial, and not his girl! Margaret pursed her lips, but refrained from saying any- thing.
“Try to make Betty behave,” Bob added. “And I do hope Dad won’t pull so many of his wise-cracks. And Mother”—he flushed—‘‘please see if you can’t get Dad to keep his coat on dur- ing dinner. I know I can count on you, Mom.” He gave her another squeeze and an unexpected, hasty kiss before letting the door slam after him. :
Margaret knew it would be difficult, almost impossible, to get Paul to keep his coat on through dinner. He always did when dining out. But Paul believed that a man should do as he pleased in hisown home. And did. Besides, he weighed one hundred and eighty-eight pounds, and even in zero weather was. likely to be- come overheated. Margaret sighed; she foresaw difficulties loom- ing ahead.
By six o’clock the little colonial house fairly glittered, it was in such perfect order for the coming guest. Margaret turned on the lamps in the living-room, readjusted the cushions, arranged the flowers, making several trips to the kitchen to be sure that Violet, the colored maid, had everything in readiness. Hearing a car in the driveway, she ran to the mirror to give her hair a final re- assuring inspection. She was glad she had taken time to drive into the village for a trim and marcel. Bob’s girl should see that his mother was young, up to date and not unattractive.
She really looked slender in her new gaily flowered chiffon; her brown hair was shingled smartly close to her head; just enough 64
rouge on each cheek. Why, she almost could have passed fora college girl herself! She was glad, for Bob’s sake.
But it had been Paul’s car, instead of Bob’s. ‘Hello, hon,” Paul said, coming over to give her a hearty smack. “Whewiel Doesn’t my girl look sweet tonight?”’ He switched on the center lights. ‘“Let’s have a little light on your subject, Mama.” He started to shed his coat.
“No! No!” Margaret cried. ‘Don’t do that!’’? She turned the lights off, then hurried over and forcibly helped him on with his coat.
“Well, for——’’ Paul’s mouth dropped open in amazement,
“Don’t you remember?” Margaret reminded him. “We'te
having company. Bob’s girl. The room looks much better with
just the lamps lighted, and you must wear your coat at the table.” “Oh, shucks!” Paul exclaimed, starting to take his coat off again. “TI’ll put the blamed thing on before we eat.” “You'll put it on now,” Margaret said firmly. ‘Please, Paul” —in a more coaxing tone—“and don’t forget and take it off dur ing dinner.”
“ Ari right,” Paul said, but his fat, good-humored face looked 4 trifle sulky. “Who is this girl anyway? The Queen of Sheba? I’m hungrier than a flood sufferer.” “We'll eat, the minute they come,’’ Margaret promised. “The train must be late. And Paul, dear, one other thing—don’t say so many—don’t try to be too—— Well, you know what I mean,
dear. Remember to be rather dignified, especially at the table,
I hope Betty will behave. I had to send her back upstairs wash her neck.” She hurried into the kitchen; Violet would be beginning to grow impatient.
“Good grief!”’ Paul grunted. “A man can’t read or talk or call his sole mio.” He stretched out on the davenport, and before his head had had time to disarrange the pillows, was snoring audibly.
By seven o’clock the scowl on Violet’s face darkened the whole kitchen. Bob knew how difficult she became if dinner was event a few minutes late. Here it was nearly an hour overtime. Mar garet was beginning to worry. Surely he would have phoned—— But there was his roadster turning in the drive. She hastened t placate the temperamental Violet before she put a stop to Pa' vocal demonstrations.
“Well, here she is, Mom!” Bob wore a grin that was both triumphant and embarrassed—his face was always a mirror of his
heck Sime eI LN ase NS a di
passed fora
Hello, hon,” . ‘Whewiel yn the center fama.” He
She turned him on with
amazement, im. “We're 1 better with t the table.” his coat off
‘lease, Paul” ce it off dur
ace looked a he Queen of
nised. “The s—don’t say vhat I mean, at the table, - upstairs t0 let would be
r talk or call 1d before his ‘ing audibly. sd the whole er was evel time. Mar phoned—— hastened to op to Paul's
ut was both mirror of his
emotions. “Gosh! I’m sorry we had to hold up dinner, but Dodo decided to take a later train. Mother, this is Dodo. Dad, want you to meet Miss Ferris.”
Margaret held out her hand,
ing 2 warm smile in re-
sponse to Miss Ferris’ slight little nod. She couldn’t help thinking that their guest, when she found she was taking a Jater train, might have sent word.
Paul was more out- spoken. “’Bout time!’’ he tebuked, wagging a finger at Bob’s girl. “‘A few minutes longer and I’d have passed out from mal- nutrition, Vitamins, my soul cries out for——”’
“Paul!”’ Margaret interrupted quickly. “You know you were sno—resting. It doesn’t matter at all,” she assured her guest. “Betty!”’—to her nine-year-old daughter who was sulking at the top of the stairs—‘Betty, dear, come on down and say how do you do to Miss Ferris,
then you can show her to her room.” tty came, rather reluctantly to be sure, but Margaret decided this was not the time to risk a scene by reproving her.
‘Take my grip upstairs, Bob,” Dodo
dered, and Margaret noticed that the Sip was the size and weight of a small trunk—for a weekend visit! ‘You won’t mind waiting a few
Illustrations
minutes longer, then?” Dodo asked, with a smile that said that — she knew they wouldn’t. “I want to take a tub before r. “Not at all,” Margaret assured her hastily, enthusiastically. was afraid she couldn’t speak hastily enough, for no telling What Paul was likely to say at having his dinner delayed longer. It was only about twenty minutes before Dodo, looking re-
by R. F. Schabelitz
freshed and composed, came down the stairs again, but to Mar- garet it seemed) like another hour. She knew that Violet positively would throw the food at them, and wondered if it would be fit to eat anyway.
Most certainly Dodo couldn’t be called a pretty girl, Margaret decided, as she led the way into the dining-room. There was hardly enough of her to be called anything. She looked as though if you touched her, especially near the middle, she would break
45
66
in two. Her features were good enough and she was rather aristo- cratic-looking in a languid colorless way. She didn’t wear even a touch of rouge or lip-stick. Her hair was very fair, with only a suggestion of a wave, and it wasn’t bobbed. Her dress was black and severely plain.
Margaret wondered what Bob could see in her—but there, she mustn’t start finding fault before they were even acquainted! Only she had hoped that Bob’s girl would be pretty. However, perhaps in a colorful, more girlish dress . . .
“What part of the bird will you have?” Paul asked, smacking his lips at the sight of food. He pushed back his chair, standing up in order to obtain a more commanding position from which to attack the fowl.
“Tt really doesn’t matter,”” Dodo murmured politely.
“Now, now!” Paul fussed. “You must have some choice. Any piece at all, except the part that goes over the fence last. That’s reserved for Mama.” He chuckled.
“Paul!”? Margaret colored up. He always made that same re- mark and he knew she didn’t eat that piece. “Just give Miss
Ferris some white meat.” No wonder Bob had hoped that his father would refrain from wise-cracking. Margaret saw
that Bob had colored up, too.
“Tt really doesn’t matter,”
Sophisticated Stuff
Dodo said again, when Paul asked if white meat would be “okay.” She turned toward her hostess, asking what she thought of O’Neill’s nine-act play.
“T haven’t seen it,” Margaret admitted, “but it certainly is an original idea.”
“I can’t agree with you,” Dodo stated. “Take the medieval players. Or Wagner. Nothing is original.”
Margaret felt reproved. “Of course we haven’t any real thea. ters out here,’’ she said, “but we have some fine movie houses, I thought perhaps you and Bob would like to go, after dinner”
“Oh, I never go to the movies!’’ Dodo replied, as though she had been insulted. ‘They’re so utterly plebeian.”’
Margaret thoroughly enjoyed a good movie. “You don’t?” she protested, feeling plebeian. ‘Not all of them are——”
“But most of them are,” Bob interrupted. ‘I can’t say I care much for them, myself.”’
Why, he knew he adored the movies! Just last Saturday night, hadn’t he and she giggled like a couple of kids over Charlie in “The Circus’? However, Margaret didn’t have time to remind him of that, for at this point Betty diverted her attention.
“Mama, look! Papa’s giving me potatoes. I won’t eat potatoes!”
“Sure you will!” Paul declared. “Make you fat and stylish like me.”
“Won’t!”’ Betty wailed, her lower lip showing signs of rebellion,
“Now, Betty!”” Margaret reproved, looking at her significantly, She had promised Betty a nickel if she would be a little lady at
the table. “‘Won’t eat potatoes,” Betty repeated stubbornly, sliding down in her chair. “Yes, you will!’ Paul declared emphatically. “ tell you my old man would have given us kids a good licking if we hadn’t cleaned up every scrap on our plates. Get to it, Betty.”
_ “Not going to eat old potatoes,” Betty muttered.
f
Id be “okay,” > thought of
ertainly is an the medieval
ny real thea- novie houses, fter dinner,” S though she
You don’t?” ire——4
n’t say I care
turday ni er Charlie in ne to remind
ntion. I won’t eat
t and stylish s of rebellion, significantly, little lady at 1 stubbornly, atically. “{ s kids a good
crap on our
ty muttered,
PS SERGE EEN OLE. LELERE PER ILLEGAL EDGE NELLIE TE LIV Ye NIE ES
Adelaide Humphries
“Children are such a problem.” Margaret addressed Dodo, thinking it best to change the subject.
“Po you think so?”’ Dodo looked mildly surprised. “I suppose they could be, only I believe in the English custom.”
“What’s that?” Margaret asked, feeling that whatever it was she should have known about it.
“The governess takes care of the children,’’ Dodo explained. “The parents only see them for one hour each day. It’s better for the child and less difficult for the parents.”
Margaret agreed that it would be; although she felt like asking what one did if there was no governess.
“Children should be fed scientifically,”” Dodo added. :
Paul snorted. “Like to see anyone try any science on Betty! Pass your plate for more chicken, Miss Paris—Harris—which is it?”
opo said that it was Ferris and that she really couldn’t D eat another bite. Margaret noticed that she scarcely had touched what was on her plate. She wondered if her guest hadn’t liked the things they served for dinner. But Dodo revealed that she was on a diet. “A diet!’’ Margaret exclaimed; she had tried dieting herself,
butnevercouldsticktoit. “Why, youcan’t weigh morethan s “An even hundred!”’ Bob proclaimed with an air of quiet triumph.
“But there’s always the chance of getting fat,’ Dodo said. She shuddered, closing her eyes fora moment. “I live in constant agony for fear I might.”
Margaret had never felt more corpulent-in all her life.. She rang for the salad. She wished she hadn’t had salad, knowing there would be the same difficulty over it with Betty as over the po- tatoes.
There was. Betty simply wouldn’t eat salad. Margaret had never learned to like it, either, until she had grown up. But Paul, who liked everything eatable, couldn’t
GI suppose you don’t believe in
carly marriages?’ asked Margaret. “This companionate idea might not be so bad,’’ Dodo replied.
67
see that that made any difference. Betty was sent, sobbing and defiant, from the table.
“You don’t mind if a man takes off his coat in his own house, now do you, Miss Dodo?” Paul asked, mopping his forehead after so much paternal exertion.
“Not in the least,”’ Dodo assured him.
“Mama’s shaking her head at me for doing it,”’ Paul chuckled. “You’d think I was removing my trous-——”
“Paul!” Margaret interrupted, just in time. What would Dodo think of Bob’s father? “Perhaps, since you don’t care for movies, we could all have a game of bridge,’’ she said, in order to say something.
“Oh, I never play bridge,”” Dodo answered. “I’ve always said that when I get so decrepit that I can’t possibly do anything else, I might take up bridge.”
Decrepit! Margaret thoroughly enjoyed a game of bridge.
She had prided herself on being so young, keeping up with her bridge clubs.
As soon as they got up from the table, Paul turned on the radio. “Don’t
“Radio’s a wonderful thing,’”? Margaret remarked. you think so?”
“T can’t say that I do,”’ Dodo replied frankly, (Continued on page 162)
Ly (6) ' ristind
The Story So Far:
OVE for handsome, blundering Ivor Summerest, the popu-
| lar cricket champion, always had spelled martyrdom for
Lily Christine, his wife. -Because of it she endured
the trials of an existence complicated by constant worry over
finances; because of it she ignored Ivor’s innumerable affairs with
the “fluffy pieces of nonsense”? who in quick succession won and
lost his fickle heart; and now, victim of her great love, she had
promised him a divorce if he really wished to marry that paragon of respectability, the widowed actress, Mrs. Abbey.
Mrs. Abbey was of a very different type from the “pieces of nonsense’ —wherein lay both Lily Christine’s despair and her hope. For when she had accepted Mrs. Abbey’s invitation to supper and had talked the matter over with her, she became con-
vinced that Ivor had been the victim of a passing infatuation -
which in no wise had been reciprocated. There were those among Lily Christine’s circle of friends who thought none too well of the actress. Mr. Ambatriadi, the Greek,
ee
Illustrations by H. R. Ballinger
68
who had known her for years, characterized her as “crafty.” Rupert Harvey—a lovable journalist whose friendship with Lily Christine dated from the night when he had put her up, wearied with a day of motoring and rendered almost blind through the breaking of her- glasses, in his absent wife’s bedroom while he retired to the sleeping-porch—had heard her referred to a “tricky.” But none of these murmurs of doubt troubled Lily Christine as she returned from her supper with Mrs. Abbey. She had been won completely by the popular star’s charm and ev- dent sincerity.
And then—she entered the house to find that Ivor had not only gone to Paris, as he had told her he intended to do, but had taken his man-servant and all his clothes with him. She kney, then, why he had seemed weighted down by secret guilt on the evening before his departure, why he had sent her roses that morning. He had intended his going to be a complete break with her—forever!
Her cousin and dear friend Neville Parwen came in and did his futile best to offer comfort. Before him, she was brave, attempt- ing flights of her old, indomitable humor. But outside the doo of the nursery where the two children who adored their father lay
‘asleep, she fainted and, coming almost instantly to herself, burst
into uncharacteristic weeping. Parwen sat beside her on the stairs. “I'll go to Paris and see him tomorrow,” he offered. “You won’t get anything out of him,” she said, for she knew her stubborn, inarticulate Ivor. But she consented to Parwen’s making the attempt to bring her husband to his senses.
ee Oa
T HAPPENED that Harvey was very busy at this time, being kept -late at the office, and so some days passed before he knew anything of Lil Christine’s immediate fortunes. There may have
been some idea at the back of his head, too, that he had seen too much of her of late, that he was inflicting his company on her. But he did not inquire too closely into that uncomfortable fancy, and anyhow he really was very busy. : When Muriel asked him for news of Lily Christine, how she was and what she was doing, he said he had had time neither to see her nor to ring her Muriel was surprised, and looked at him m an oddly ruminating way which he found rather annoying. On the afternoon of the fifth day after the events related m the previous chapter, he heard Lily Christine’ voice on the telephone asking him what she had done to deserve his desertion. “Not,” she said, “that I expect abu man to om ands me more than once week, but you might at least have rung me: up to ask me how} “And how are he asked. Ef “It doesn’t 2 now—you are benim the times.” ead
A Novel : ofa
Goop Woman
r as “crafty.” ship with Lily er up, wearied id through the room while he referred to as
troubled Lily s. Abbey. She
harm and ev-
Ivor had not to do, but had m. She knew, et guilt on the her roses that omplete break
- in and did his rave, attempt. itside the doot their father lay > herself, burst
I'll go to Paris
” she said, for vor. But she mpt to bring
ry busy at this . and so some thing of Lil rere may have 0, that he had
s inflicting his
ire too closely
how he really
Lily Christi eS
Sea le tek You've no more business with
‘o ring her Ivor, understand that! I’m go-
ked at him ing to make a decent life for him.
hich he found 4 ell you behave if you want ‘tobehappy? Now get out!” said
te =a Mrs. Abbey to Lily Christine.
chapter, he :
Christine's hy, has somuch as all that happened in the last few the telephone days?”
him what she
“Oh, you can’t imagine how much! I’d like to see you, if you
ne to deserve @ “4lspare any of your precious time.” rtion. 4 “Don’t say that, Lily Christine! It’s only that I’ve been » she sail, you have seen quite enough of me lately.”
expect , what a silly thing to say! I didn’t think it of you, come really I didn’t.” ‘e than “Well, I promise not to be so petty in future.” ut you , su can begin straight away by coming to see me this eve- have rung! I want to ask your advice about something.”
Voice was light and unconcerned; he thought it must be some little thing. Our advice,’’ she said, ‘as a man of the world.” “Well, I’ve never been called that before, more’s the pity!” ey. $ about a letter I had this morning—such a very curious that I don’t know whether I’m standing on my head or my
By MIGHAEL ARLEN
heels. I suppose you know Ivor has gone?”’
“But I was with you when he went to Paris!”
“IT mean forever, dear—left me is the way to put it, I think.”
“Well!” said Harvey, dumfounded.
“Yes, it is surprising. That evening you wouldn’t have thought he was going for good, would you?”
That hesitating back in the doorway, ashamed ...
“Where’s Parwen?” he asked, after a long pause.
“Paris. He should be back this evening some- time. How seriously he takes his responsibilities as my first cousin—bless him! What a world it is, isn’t it, one so irre- sponsible and another so—adequate? And the irresponsible ones seem to get the best of every- thing. It zs hard, Rupert, isn’t it?” :
“T simply can’t get over it,” Harvey said. “Running off like that!”
She gave a small laugh, which made him tingle with distress.
“You can’t imagine what a conceited fool it has made me feel! For I did think, I was positive, he liked me. Shows a woman she must never take anything for granted.”
Harvey could not say anything, for distaste.
And all he could think of from.that moment until he stood at the door of
the small narrow house in the small - narrow’ street, was Summerest’s clumsy hesi- - tating back. He kept on looking at the fellow’s back hesitating in -the doorway, ashamed.
Hempel opened ~ the door, a thing that never had happened before. She welcomed him with a lugubrious smile.
“Why, where’s Coghill?”
“Coghill, sir, has gorn, left us.”
So he had “left’’ us too, had he! A charming pair. Here today, gone tomorrow. Modern marriage. The irresponsible swine.
In the familiar bedroom he found to his surprise that Lily Christine was in bed.
“But you didn’t tell me you weren’t well
“Oh, I’m quite well, really. It’s only that my heart gets funny sometimes and I’m told to lie in bed to keep out of mischief.”
There were two others in the room, a tall man and a tall young woman, neither of whom Harvey had seen before. Lily Christine introduced the tall young woman as Mrs. Parwen. She was very handsome in a severe way, with dark troubled eyes. Harvey felt she was troubled about things beyond his understanding. She had a pleasant, impersonal, masculine voice. Harvey found her rather formidable.
As for Ambatriadi the Greek, he never was so surprised =
‘
1?
70
his life. Ambatriadi was reading a letter in an absorbed way, and merely glanced up to shake hands with the newcomer. Har- vey’s met a hard, bony, restless hand. Now he had made a picture to himself of Ambatriadi the Greek as a shortish sleek dark man, very well-mannered, very well-dressed, suave and confident. To his resentment he found himself looking un to— Harvey was a stooping sort of six
feet—a very erect man of impa-
tiently natural manners in an old
tweed suit that was first cousin to
his own, a handsome man with a
high, sensitive nose and tired, gen-
tle brown eyes and a weathered,
ravaged, haggard, ruined and mel-
ancholy complexion.
The familiar bedroom looked cheerful in the firelight. There were no roses on the small table by the bed.
“Council of war,” Lily Christine smiled.
“Only Neville is missing,” Mrs.
Parwen said in her pleasant mas- culine voice, “and he should be here soon.”
The bed was strewn with papers and books and note-paper. Lily Chris- tine, sitting propped up against a pile of cushions, with her largest spectacles on her nose and her curly hair running wild, looked like a studious schoolgirl who had been-overreading. She looked tired and wan, as though a long sleep would do her good.
But there was a sort of fluttering gaiety about her too, not feverish or unreal, but fluttering, hovering, a pale light gaiety of spirit, the waxen-white gossamer flower on the barren treeofun- J, é happiness. And she spoke quite lightly <a. and naturally, but Harvey felt all the time that there was only a very small part of her in the room with them.
“You see, you have got a companion for your dram-drinking at last,” she smiled at him as-he helped himself to a drink.
Ambatriadi, standing near the overburdened desk, was still absorbed in reading the letter, while in his other hand he held a tumbler in which, as Harvey could see, the impertinence of soda- water had been almost savagely limited. Harvey could have sworn that the man had long since finished reading the letter, and was now digesting it.
Mrs. Parwen sat in the armchair, looking thoughtfully into the fire. Her features were severely beautiful, and her nostrils made Harvey think of race-horses. one
Harvey sat sideways at the foot of the bed.
‘‘How are Julia and Timothy in this awful weather? Ours have got beastly colds.”’
“T’ve packed them off to Mother in the country.”
“And a good thing too!’’ Mrs. Parwen said briskly.
She turned her dark troubled eyes to Harvey, and he saw how kind they were when they descended from their troubled heights. ;
“T do wish,” she said, ‘‘you would try to persuade Lily Chris- tine to come and stay with Neville and me for a while. I can’t see any point in her staying alone here—particularly in this dis- heartening weather.”’
“Sonia, really I can’t, dear.”’
Ambatriadi° had at last finished with the letter, and was drinking thoughtfully.
“Well, Andy? What do you think?”
And on a sudden Lily Christine’s voice was full of hope, eager, quite different from the light tentative ’yoice-in which she was saying everything that day.
To Harvey’s surprise the tall Greek did not answer, but merely shrugged his shoulders in an extraordinarily impatient way, “Well!”
“Yes, it’s quite mad, isn’t it?”’ Lily Christine said, but now quite listlessly.
: “Here,”’ said Ambatriadi abruptly, holding out the ietter to darvey.
“Yes, read it, Rupert,” Lily Christine said listlessly.
While Harvey read the letter he could feel that Ambatriadi,
Lily Christine
without once looking at him, was taking a keen interest in what Americans call his “reaction’’ to it. There was something comical] in the restless way Ambatriadi paced up and down; one could not resent it.
‘One felt he was so worried, so disturbed about other people’s troubles, and impatient to put them right. One felt that his
friends gave him a very great deal of trouble, which could have
been avoided but for their stupidity. The letter was quite short, and in a clear, capable hand-
writing. Dear Lily Christine, .
It isn’t easy for me to write this letter. But I am afraid it has got to be done. Of course you will understand that there can be no question of my ever coming back to you. All that is over, as you must have known it would be-if ever I found out. I am‘afraid it will be no use trying to call this a misunderstanding. ~ I could never write such a letter as this without the most definite proofs, ‘and those were given to me only the other evening just before left for Paris. I know I am not free from blame for the fact that our marriage has turned out to be an unhappy one. But never for a moment has it ever occurred to me that you could be anything but loyal in your affection for me and your love for our children. _ To find you haven’t been is a great shock to me. I haven’t yet quite decided what steps I shall take, but you will be informed in due course. In the meanwhile I shall stay on in Paris. rl vor
Harvey was so thunderstruck that he had to read several sentences time and again before he could feel that he had eves remotely understood what the fellow was driving at.
Michael Arlen
His back was half-turned to Lily Christine, and very glad. he ‘as of it. , “ Ambatriadi’s eye he wanted to catch first. He did not stop to ask himself how it was that he trusted Ambatriadi to ‘ve of his best in friendship to Lily Christine.
He folded the letter up carefully, gaining time before he looked
> -
crest in what thing comical nN; One could
ther people’ felt that his
could have
yable hand-
1 it has got can be no yer, as you m afraid it G,"‘Nappie, you mean there really is a—case 2 st ome against Rupert?’ ‘‘The two maids saw . ches ; him come out of your room, Lily Christine.” e fact that : neve up. Somehow he did not associate Summerest with that letter. ahidrene a letter seemed to have nothing to do with any man he ever aven’t yet met. It was an idiotic wickedness committed by some im- 1formed in Personal unknown. : “Well?” Lily Christine asked listlessly.
Ivor But Harvey could not turn round to her, could not collect ead sever BY sentences in his mind. He met Ambatriadi’s tired eyes. e had evea ‘he Greek was looking at him, as who should say: “Now what
shall we tell her?”
/1
“Fancy Ivor going mad!” Lily Christine sighed, still deep in thought.
“He’s not mad, far from it,’’ Ambatriadi said hoarsely. He had a hoarse smoky voice with a decidedly foreign intonation.
“Not mad? Then what is he?”
“T could tell you what he is,’”’ Ambatriadi said wickedly, “‘in Greek.”
“Rupert, tell me,” she said.
Her voice sounded quite inattentive, as though she was thinking of other things. He did not look round at her, not knowing what to say.
“Ts he or isn’t he accusing me of something or other in that letter? And if so, what? I’ve read it until my head aches, and still I can’t make out. Sonia!”
“Yes, dear?”
“You’ve read it. Is Ivor accusing me of some- thing? Rupert, tell me, dear.”
Harvey looked at Am- batriadi. Mrs. Parwen looked into the fire. To his infinite surprise, when he at last turned to