Decatur Daily Democrat, Volume 28, Number 189, Decatur, Adams County, 11 August 1930 — Page 3

hw American Short Stories SPEAKEASY

SI wf «»i no* 1 The tbIDK. “ bou ‘ I? that bad youth were th* P orch “. abll , things: the gO wn« she wore, the slanted bat*, the I unoere: U>« baireut. dj n ter bair* l^tWf I '.? “on. She I’« rLvti 'in “belt sticky I And l>’ r -ere as old and as I’s'2"?. “»■ J “" I i”** J.rv Igoouomerr y ork Bhe I Slle sVo Newport so utterly, I lha ‘ P eople Ik w .s stared fasclItro" out ot d d r ememZ7w«th Ziegfeld’s and the Pennayll H ’i. RwF’and Times Square I'° J evening, when they b ,el< ? "Those New York ■ went bom ß - rrovlndal m atroaß. I Sertlng that her hose were I S black chiffon, returned to P , o their Saturday bridge IX that sheer black chiffon I? Sr. was the thing now in York although the ratio of P 10 bl«k beheld by them hi’bt ° have been a thousand I naira to one I Tn «ee her was to wonder who I h was "ere you provincial I Manhattan born you won- | She bad an air of being Liwone not quite respectable li ladv a little declasse. There le . her eyes. There were her Tinted bats There her I mouth done freshly In thick. | Jtoe-red salve upon a skin dead | white as Hly petals. I AS a matter of fact. M'S I jenny Montgomery conducted a Irpeakeasy De Luxe. I u was on Riverside Drive. Ilhe building was high and Inuare made of buff-colored I Mod. an apartment building I Couples with children dwelt tn I t IBd stiff gray spinsters | dwelt In It. and a man named Imine who solicited funds for Lite cause of prohibition dwelt In I It. happily unaware that tn the | bungalow on the roof Jennv | Montgomery served champagne |or whisky or absinthe or what- | tnn-you pay-for nightly includ- | Ing Sundavs. from seven on | a private elevator shot exI tress io her door propelled by a | unifo’Ted youth with a thin | tight mouth and a savings acI fount Jenny Montgomery called | the bungalow Top o' the World I She had had cards engraved: “Top o the World. Riverside | Drlra." You had ,0 present one I Drive You had to present one I to Wallace, the sepia houseman, I rto answered your ring. If I your card bore Mrs. MontgomI cry's round, rather schoolgirl I signature you got in directly. If llt didn’t, there wa= delay But I you got In. • I From the roof that ran around I th. bungalow like a brick lawn, ton could see the river and the toy boats on the river, and miler and miles and milbk of the clut tered town; and at night there I were .tars below you; brighter than higher stars, and the wheels lad spires of palisades Park Bade gilt geometries on the iky , The bungalow itself had seven rooms, three baths. It was beautiful. exotic, shadowy, with purple curtains Even in the daytiMthe lamps were lit, the curtiloa drawn acroDs ths doors tnd windows that there might he no daytime ever Sometimes. Saturdays and Sundays, a pianist was there, a pale blond dinner-coated boy. with magic rhythmic fingers He played by ear Played anything you bummed or whistled to him. Left to himself he chose the "Rhapsody In Blue." Whiteman’s arrangement of the “Song of India" —things llkv that which brea vont heart Big name was Georgia » Sometimes he was asked to Play the ‘Varsity Drag" or "Shakfn' the Blues Away " And » girl would dance alone, her bobbed hair prancing, her silver illppers stamping down the beat Sometimes a man would lean tn the curve of the piano casually, hlj elbow backward on It and a tall glass In his hand, and sing a ballad or a mammy song. These performers were always profeeelonal; you could depend on that. Jenny Montgomery tactfully discouraged the occasional •mateur, emboldened by wine, who wished to give impromptu exhibition. She was a tactful woman. She knew everything, told nothing. Her guests enjoyed an anonymity as complete ae possible. "Who’, who," she said, “is noddy's business." If you attempted to learn from her anything about herself, •he merely smiled. A mysterious woman. The Wabllshment she ran had myatery; an atmosphere close Southed. Inscrutable. The serv•"tg. Wallace and Euiie, never •poke at all, except to say, “The or " You ma F settle with "’dame when you are leaving, ” you nlease.” i LAST year Jenny Montgomery had made,over and above u,,.. considerable running exL®*?* l thlrt F-two thousand, nine hundred and fifty dollars, not“»ur a r nlg ? L Mora, “» wa.ini*** 1 11* 1 fo I her ’ an<l lunch m‘dahl* Word ' Sbe woke ‘n less nr ?. thre « hours or They were h ht a ”? of pr,vac y’ Bovin, nn hours a! »nys. bed then ?„? e l Ule - Coffee ,n ' then telephone calls, ther

► conferences with Wallace and+l with Eulle. Ten minutes at her t check book, sixty tn her dressing I room. On Mondays and Thurs- t days Euiie, who had once worked I in a beauty parlor, marcelled c her mistress's hair. On other 1 days at this same time the tiny I wrinkles were massaged, the . brows were plucked, the elon- « gated Chinese nails were manicured and lacquered red. By I about four-thirty Mrs. Mont- i gomery was ready to go out I She always went out, rain or * shine. Wallace and Eulle never 1 knew exactly where. “Out,’’ was ' all she told them. On a blustery day In early 1 March sbe woke at half-past ' two and lay a minute listening to the wind. She lay very still and listened. ' Sad wind. Sobbing wind. It ‘ beat against her small high i house with savage desperation; wind lost and lonesome, striving , to get in. “1 like It.” she . thought. “I love it." It made her feel warm, secure. It was , making her feel drowsy, sbe ' found, after a moment, so sbe jerked herself upright determinedly, calling, "Euiie!" She { bad things to do to-day. Eulle appeared and brought a negligee and mules. Jenny Montgomery shuffled to her shower. Sbe exchanged the pink net for a rubber bathing cap, then thrust her bead around the frame of the door to say to Eulle, who was selecting lacy lingerie from wardrobe shelves. "Did you go to the bank" “Yes, madame. An hour ago." “Three hundred and eightysome, wasn't it?" "Three hundred eighty-four, sixty-three." said Eulle, the precise Mrs. Montgomery nodded In a satisfied way. "That game helped." she remarked. And withdrew her bead, and turned the shower on. This day she was hatted and furred for the street as early as quarter at four. "Back by six," the told Euliv Going down 'n 'he elevator. . be bummed a little tune She wag happy "Surely to-day!" sang her heart. “Today there will be one!" On the sidewalk she hailed a taxicab it was too windy and too cold to walk. Sbe gave an addres.. fifteen blocks away and up a side street. "Hurry,” she urged "I’ve got to be there in two minutes." Which was not s true at all. She had the right change ready wbeu the taxi stopped, with a quarter for the tip. She ran across the pavement, up the steps. They were brownstone steps, with a glass door at the top that swung into a tiny vestibule. As she ascended Coetly her lifted eager eyes looked through the glass to the double row of mail boxes! Yes! The second left-hand slit showed white. It would be dark, opaque. If there was nothing She knew. It had been dgrk i often enough. With a key in fingers not qtl'ie steady she unlocked the tox and i took the letter out. A letter postmarked Canada. Addressed to “Mrs. Jenny Miller.” Thai • name. too. was on the box. "Long one!” Jenny Montgom--1 ery sighed ecstatically, pinching She locked the box again and found another, larger key. with which sbe let herself into the house, inside there was a small ■ hall with carpeted stairs climbing from it. Jenny Montgomery mounted the stairs. She I mounted four flights of them. ’ -lapping her letter lightly against the banisters all the way. The door at the top of the ’ tourib flight opened to her keydirect into a living room so colorful. so sunny, that it was men- ’ tai tonic just to enter. A living ' room all yellow wails and deeper I yellow woodwork, and t!ny gay ' canaries perching in the ere-| ' tonne curtains here and there amid the gree-blue-orange-black 1 design. A small room crowded • cheerfully with painted furnli ture, and fat low chairs slip--1 covered in bright linens in plain • hues. A room, you felt quite • sure, where smiling people lived, • and wore their bedroom slippers ' if they wanted to, and sometimes I in the evenings said, “Oh, listen, • this la good!” and read a chosen 1 paragraph aloud. It was warm In the room. • Beautifully warm. A radiator • sizzled somewhere. Nice to know - that It made that sound when • she was not here; keeping the ■ place alive, though it was empty. • She threw her coat off. With > thumb and forefinger she dragged her small smart hat off » by its brim and tossed it with - the coat upon a coueh. She 3 ruffled her hair with both hands. - ran all her slim spread fingers r through and through it. Euiie s would have been appalled, i "Your wave, madame!” Umm — , but the comfort! Heavenly. SHE sat down with her letter. Her eyes were excited, giis toning. Her fingers stripped a side 0 edge of the envelope. She drew the pages out, unfolded them s A snapshot fell to her lap A i Blender, handsome boy, dark 1 eyed. A boy about sixteen In r corduroy knickers, a sweater . marked B, a little knitted cap . worn jauntily, one ear exposed, i he stood at ease on skates upon n a spreading sheet of ice. a

hockey stick held across his thighs. He looked like an advertisement for a winter resort. He looked like an illustration from the catalogue of aNorthern preparatory cchool. He looked, in tbs set of his eyes. In the shape of bis lace, Hie Jenny Montgomery. Strikingly and unmistakably. Sitting quits still, she gazed long at the snapshot. Once she made a strange small sound <n her throat, half whimper, ball croon. Once she laughed outright, tenderly. "Getting so tall —I can’t " When she put It aside, propping it up on the table at her elbow, her eyes went wits it, reluctant to drop away. She nodded her head to the tiny picture figure. "Was a good hockey player" she assured it solemnly, in baby talk. "Was the great big captain of the team!” Euiie and Wallace would have thought that Madame bad gone suddenly mad. Or that they bad. She took up the pages. Snuggled her shoulders deep in the upholstery of her chair. Propped her elbows on the arms, and tilted her head. The letter began, "Dearest," and It wag flve inky pages long. "1 guess you think I have died or something, but the fact is I have been so busy,” etc. A page of that. A paragraph of thanks for "the check, also the cake. It get a little mashed coming but tasted great.” Another paragraph, much underlined, about "the food they give us.” which, it ap peared. was "fierce," An ad dendum to this, scrawled on the margin; “How about some fudge next time and maybe a roast chicken?" Then there were two pages of hockey, and a page-long complaint of one "Itchy” Flanders, the Latin instructor, who bad “sprung a quiz” in a most unsporting way on the Monday previous. Then this : Vacation starts March 24th and we get ten days. Bi'l Hardhart asked me to go home with him he lives in Montreal —but 1 would rather come down and be with you if it’s okay. Remember you said maybe I cculd for spring vacation, since I didn't Christmas? I haven’t seen you for so long and I’d like to take in some shows and get a couple of new suits made including a new Tux, as this one is getting too short In the sleeves. So will you let me know tn your next letter so 1 can tell Bi'l yes or no and make arrangements. Have to stop now as I am writing in study hall and it is time for the bell. Love, ROGER. P. S. Let me know as soon as you can about vacation as there aro only seventeen days more. R. Jenny Montgomery read the whole lette- tour times over. Then she folded It and sat slipping it through her fingers thoughtfully. There was a little line between her brows. But her eyes shone. She was deciding whether or not to let him come, knowing all the time, full well, that he was coming They had not been together, she and Roger, since September. Before that, not since February. "Twice a year,” she said slowly, aloud. "Two weeks out of fifty-two/’ Her voice caught, and she closed her eyes. It sounded like so little to be all the joy she had. But he was coming! Soon! That was the thing to think r out. Her eyes flew open and were lit again HE HAD been »orn in the summer of 1911; and If some day he is great, aud his biography is written, the writer may add."of poor bui honest parents." Certainly Harry Miller and his young wife Jenny were poor. Certainly they were honest. A tired little couple with rough I deft hands and minds full of little, little things, who loved each other, quarreled and forgot it. struggled grimly for existence and on Sundays thanked God. and were more wretched — and much happier—than they knew. They had a wee shabby house that would be paid for in six years, and they breakfasted by lamplight every morning. Harry Miller, blond, huge, looked like a Viking and was a street car motorman. Passengers liked to ride with him on the front platform. A sign read, "Don’t Talk to the Motorman.” But Harry talked to you. He gossiped cheerily; he philosophized; he prophesied. He had two concurrent opinions to offer on any given topic. One began. “The way I see it Is ” The other; “My old ladv cays ” His old lady was twenty-two years old; a brown-eyed, brownhaired pretty little thing Nobody knew who her parents were. Harry Miller had married her out of the home of the Widow Peters, who In turn had procured her, to act as daughter, companion, and "help.” from an orphanage. Her name was Jenny Chase then, or at any rate, that was the name with which her Infant wrist had been tagged when the orphanage matron found her one long ago night in the vacant vestibule. She was a good girl, and a capable girl, and Harry Miller was considered lucky She cooked well sewed beautifully, scrubbed endlessly, and was faithful to him. even with her eves A man «»uld not ask

■A i ! ft ) il

Williams straightened and wheeled, crying boisterously, “Hullo, Monty! how’s the girl?”

more. This man didn’t. He* worshipped her. In the first year of their marriage she bore him a child that died. In the third year Roger was born. Roger Harold Miller, eight and three-quarter pounds Harold for his father. Roger—well, his mother didn't know why quite. She only knew that “Roger Miller" bad a sound that pleased her. She used to try it over variously to herself. "Roger Miller, the financier.” "Dr. Roger Mitler.” "An exhibition of paintings by Roger Miller.” “Mr. and Mrs. Somebody Grand request the honor of Mr. Roger Miller’- company . . .” At the Widow Peter’s, before she was so busy, she had read every book she could lay hands on. Roger was a merry baby, plump, with blue eyes turning brown, and pink petal bands, amazing strong. "Look, Harry! How he grabs hold!” Harry said he was going to run a street car like his dad. But he wasn't Jenny Miller knew he wasn’t. Before he was six weeks old she bad a secret china bank, called in her mind "For Roger Later.” There was a quarter in it at the start Then thirty cents. Then thirty-three. Then forty-three. “By the time he’s grown up • . Jenny Miller thought, breathlessly, schem ingiy. Economy had always been a necessity with her. Now it be came an obsession. Sbe retrimmed her two hats for the secund time each and stirred fewer eggs than usual Into the angel food cake for the Baptist Church Christmas supper. Ont of old wash dresses and petticoats she manufactured Roger's little clothes. "Don’t you earn now," she would croon to him, putting them on. “Some day you'll be the best dressed boy that ever was So don’t you care.” She faded a little that year and was not so pretty or so young. The small uncertain mirror above the bureau in the bedroom told her this, and once or twice she sighed. She was a woman. But she was maternal even more, and Roger’s pink increasing pounds, the china bank that shook so noisily were compensation. After all. what had her prettiness ever got her? Harry, of course, but —she had him now. Then one day, a June day, warm and fragrant (she remembered it still: the sunshine, and the song of a bird in the yard) footsteps came speeding to har door, knuckles rapped frantically, a voice cried. "Mrs. Miller! Mrs. Miller! Mrs. Miller” And she had only Roger in the world. Then there was no more angel food cake. There were no new heartening klinks Into the little china bank. There was not even a shabby house, but a single cluttered room, with a crib in the corner and milk bottles on the sill. Jenny Miller sewed. She made dresses, aprons—anything anyone wanted. It was not very profitable. Orders, after the first gust of sympathy for her had subsided, were few. But sbe tried. For months. She had that to remember always, afterward. She did try. The Widow Peters, who might have helped so much, had died the winter before. The other villagers were poor and did their own sewing, or they were rich and had it done in cities. Jenny Miller didn’t blame them. She didn’t blame any of them. But she learned that year the terrible casual carelessness of people —never to forget it; never again to expect or to give any quarter. She talked constantly to Roger, tiny as he was: apologizing. promising. “We’ll get out of this We’ll have a lovely home some day—and lots of toys for you—and a pony . . .” It was as though he were a little prince of the blood whom she had brought to live in poverty. But not for long! Not for very long, she kept assuring him. Something will happen soon. The day she had to break his china bank to buy some spinach

One of O’Brien Prize Story Selections

’and a saucepan and a spool of> forty thread she cried for many minutes, bolding him tight against her breast. Cried stormily. Then just cried. Then put him down and sat there for a long time, dry eyed, staring. One of the things she bougnt that day with Roger’s little savings was a round gilt tin of rouge for the cheeks. The matron of the orphanage, who had been her only mother — and a kind one—was retired now. living in a neat green house in the next sunny village but one. To her Jenny Miller entrusted her son. "Ta. j care of him.” she said, white faced. "Oh, you’ll take good care of him? I have to go away—to work—for a little while.” That little while was fifteen years. AT first she looked for a fine man who had money, who would marry her and love Roger as his own. Everywhere she went she looked for him. in cates. In dancing places. Always her eyes strayed past and beyond her companion of the moment, looking for him. Later, she looked for money. Simply tha;, and all of it she could get When Roger was three he had mittens of fur, and a pupp 7 , and a silver mug for milk. When he was six he had a red automobile, and a Liberty bond in the bank. He went to kindergarten and was kept immaculate with soap that cost thirty cents a cake. His guardian, Mrs. Willoughby, boasted to the neighbors of his mother’s phenomena] success as a dressmaker in New York City. “You know she has a shop now. Yes, all her own. Well, I always knew she was smart!” Once a friend of Mrs. Willoughby’s on a trip to New York tried to find the shop and failed. This was duly reported, via Mrs. Willoughby, to Jenny Miller, who wrote at once of new triumphs. She had given up the shop! She was designing now for a wholesale house in the Thirties, at a salary “that Is really big, and will increase, I think.” Apparently it did. Roger, ten years old, was sent to a boardschool; the most expensive, the most exclusive. In the summer he was sent to a private camp. He grew. He acquired muscles, a handsome tan. a smattering of learning, a circle of polished young friends with tailored clothes and allowances that were large, but not larger than his. He became what adults fondly call "a little gentleman.” He shot up, and the adjective had to be left out. But the noun remained. His mother was proud, proud. The briefest thought of him could Inflate her heart like a sudden wind blown in. This she had created, no matter how, this perfection, this young elegance. She was proud of his week-ends at great estates, of his easy use of grand and glittering names. On the rare occasions when, dark clad and chary of speech, she visited him at school, she was proud of bis patent popularity. As time went on she sensed a certain fastidiousness in him, and she was insanely proud of that. SOMEHOW It seemed to balance things a little.... March 16th. Dear Mother ! Just a line, as I am writing !n French class and may be called on at any moment. 1 haJ your wire, and the fudge, which was marvelous. I am looking forward to the 26th. which is ’he day I arrive. Vacation starts the 24th as I told you. but I have to stay over here an extra day on account of this play I’m supposed to be in. and will leave on the 25th, getting there the 26th. Sunday. Don’t try to meet me. as I don’t know quite which train. I’ll come straight to the apartment when I get In. I certainly ".ro wild to see you and a thousand things to tell yon and ask you. What would you think about my going to Europe for the coming summer with Randj

by Katharine Brush

Biitton —he’s the English prof—and a bunch of r the fellows' I’ve never been, as you know and it’s high time Think It over, and we’ll talk about it when I get there. Hastily. R. He was coming to-morrow To-morrow! Not two weeks from now, or a few days from now, but just overnight from now! It was a song in .he mind of Jenny Miller alias Montgom ery It was a warmth in te r heart. All afternoon she had toiled at the little apartment ou the side street, getting it in readiness. Making it look lived in. Winding clocks, putting flowers and new magazines around. Baking a chocolate cake, a lemon pie. a loaf of nut bread—for to-morrow’ Sbe had not wanted to return here to the roof bungalow, it spoiled joyous anticipation just a little to return. But' this was Saturday night, big night and profitable, she really ought to be here, since she could. After to-night the place must get along without her for a time. Sbe would not come near it while Roger stayed. Sbe wocld tel) him that the firm had given her ten days off, and she would be happy . . happy. “Purple velvet,” she said to Euiie. "The one with the feathers on the hip. Here, give it to me. You go see who's out there.” It was seven o’clock Th< vanguard of the thirsty had al ready arrived, heralded by a long buzz of the bell. Eulle left the room. Jenny Miller made of the purple dress a cipher of folds, and slipped it over her shoulders and pulled 1t down. It was skin tight and knee high, with a tiny tagging train. Against the background of the train her legs were gold chiffon, tapering prettily to gold shoes like miniature boats with her stern 1 set on high gilt poles she donned Jewelry next. A pair of long gold earrings Two antique gold bracelets, tight and wide as handcuffs. She took net time. From her dressing room through doors ajar, she could hear voices, and presently the hiss of seltzer water into a glass, then Into a second glass. Someone started the phonograph:

My one an' onnn-ly, Wha’m I gonna do if you turrr-n me down. . . . Jenny Miller hummed with it. Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmmmmmm. Eulle reappeared. “It's Mr. Williams,” she said, “and a fnend of his." “Somebody new?” "I think so. I don’t remember seeing him before. Mr Williams,” said Euiie, "asked me to ask you to please call up a couple of young ladies right away. Miss Gertrude and ” SHE strolled forth a minute later, vivid, spectacular; one hand on her hip where the feathers quivered., the other fingering a long jade cigarette holder. lu the living room Williams stood with his back to her, beside a divan. His companion, seated on a divan, was partially hidden from her by Williams, who bent over him. She could see long legs in sharp-creased black trousers and knees upon which was balanced the tooled leather photograph portfolio from the table, open wide. As she approached, one of the stranger’s hands held out one of the photographs at arm's length. Sbe noted, feeling vaguely reminded of something, that the sleeve of his coat was short, showing an extra inch or so of wrist She said, above the music, "Good-evening gentlemen ” Williams straightened and wheeled. crying boisterously. “Hul-10. Monty! How’s the girl? "Here.” he said, "shake hands with a friend of mine Mr. Miller. From Canada Rog. this is the famous Mrs. Montgomery —otherwise Monty—l’ve told you about."

i He stopped speaking. Thei phonograph with a crash discordant chord stopped playing! and after that it was quiet, weirdly quiet in the room. Jenny Miller stared al her son. From the divan—bo had not risen—Roger stared back. His eyes were wide, incredulous, horrified, fearful. Fearful above all else. "He thinks," thought Jenny Miller, “I will give him away.” With a small still piece of per whirling, screaming mind, sbe thought this. Sbe shook her head ever eo lightly "How do you do?" sbe said, "Mr.-—Miller “ And she made her mouth smile. Above the smile her eyes spoke anguished-clear, as bls hud spoken. “Act!" they bebought him. "Help me.” Another atom of thought emerged distiuct in her mind She turned quickly. "Wallace! Oh. Wallace” And when the colored man presented himself, she said. “Don t let anyone else In A—ptlvate party.” “Fine!" cried Williams. “Say. that’s awfully sweet of you. Monty! And on a Saturday night, too!" He beamed at her If he had for an Instant sensed anything amiss, her manner bad quite reassured him. "Great girl." he said "Treats her old triends right — don’t you. Monty?” He turned to the tray r.n which bottles and glasses stood Straight?” he asked her 'Please." she said She needed It. She sat down ,n the divan beside Roger, striving not to let herself notice how instinctively he edged away She thought. "What shall I say? What would 1 say if he were—anybody?" Her h aln fumbled for words, light words and casual.

"You —you're from Canada?" she said, not looking at him That was safe Williams had mentioned that. It was Williams who an swered her “Yeah, Canada he nodded, pouring rye. "I met him when I was up there at Christmas. We had some gorgeous benders together, too —eh. Rog?" Carrying the little glass of brown liquid, he approached the divan. "By the way!" ne chuckled. "He’s on a train coming down from Canada right this minute if you did but know it! Here you are, Monty." She took the glass. Her fingers carefully steady. "How do you mean?” she lightly said. "Well, you see.” explained Williams, grinning at Roger, "his mother lives here 1 . New York, and he's going to spend his spring vacation with her. You know how that is. of course! No chance for any excitement or anything. So he told her he couldn't get here till to-morrow and wired me to meet him at five to-day. He’s got this one night to celebrate —and he’s arfn’ to go. Eh. Rog’” Roger beside her made an unintelligible sound In Lis throat.

"Speak up!” commanded Williams, hugely amused. "What’s the matter — cat got your tongue?" He winked at Jenny Miller roguishly. “Boy’s a little shv,” he informed her. "just at first. But a great fellow! And it's up to us to give him a big evening." Jenny Miller swallowed her drink. Williams sat down squeezing himself between them H - set his own glass on the floor nnd transferred the photograph folder from Roger's knees to his own. “Now," he said, “let’s get this party started " “No!” cried Jenny Miller suddenly. dirtily. "No.” She got to her feet. Faced them. Stood facing them, burn ing eyed, the fingers of her two hands locking and unlocking before her. She could feel how pale she was. She moistened her lips “No.” she said again "I—there isn’t going to be any party.. Not here. "You’d better go.” she added faintly. “What the " Williams, bewildered. “What’s wrong Monty?" “Nothing.” she said. “Nothing I —can’t, that’s all." Abruptly her voice soared, vehement, loud. “It’s all wrong. And I’m through with it. I’m through, do you hear? I'm giving up this place. 1 always hated it — hated everything about ft." She was looking at Williams, pleading with Roger. Groveling mentally at Roger’s feet. ‘I mean it.” she said pitifully. “Never any more. Ne -er I swear it. I’ll scrub floors first. I’ll— ” It -s useless. Her eyes flicked Roger's face once and saw that it was useless, and the sw<ft words stopped in a thin, sma;l whimper of pain "Oh,” she cried out. "don't you understand? It was only so 1 could gi ’’ She checked herself. Shook her head, choking '"urned blindly t-way. “Well, I’il be damned!" said Williams into the silence. Jenny Miller scarcely heard him. Al) her mind, all her faculties were concentrated on the blurred shape a little distance off that wajt a chair, if she could reach it. If she could only . . There Williams was talking on. Demandi-’.'; testily what had struck her. Freni the chair, through the hot moist haze in her eyes.

PAGE THREE

she glared at him. loathing him This was bis fault. He bad come and brought Roger, and now, because be was here, she couldn't explain, she couldu t defend herself, sbe bad no chance . . . "Get out,” uho beard herself say to him tonelessly, “Get out of here. Get out." Even after she had ceased say ing it, it repeated itself again aud again in her mind. "Get out. Get out" It was all sbe could ‘hink. Dimly sbe knew ibat Williams stood up; vaguely without caring, she beard the word he threw at her. it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at ail except bls going "Get out. Hurry. Leave us alone." Then she saw that Roger was going too. Rising from the divan, moving toward the foyer, oilowing Williams—going. "Wait!" sbe called sharply. Both young men halted in >he ■ oyer door. Turned Inquiringly Roger’s face, stranger's face, white and set, leaped at her. She was out of her chair now. Standing erect. Newly, desperately calm. "Mr Miller.” she said ’will not leave " • It was horrible, it was uot ’o be borne, that grim young tace of her son. “I—l’m sorry.” he said, low And he went. For seconds the echo of the slammed front door tilled all h-r consciousness. crowding out thought Then she shrieked “Euiie! Euiie!” The maid came running Jenny Miller seized her by the shoulders, push<d her toward the door “Quick! The other young man, the new one—make him come back —tell him lie must. 1 must see him ” The door slammed again The echo subsided, and there was stillness. Centuries of stillness Jenny Miller waited Lis tened. Died a little She heard at last the sound n the elevator in the corridor out side. The door of it opening clanging shut. Then Euiie returned Alone "He’s gone, madame He wouldn't listen at all ’’ THE bouse teiepb; n> was ai the wall of'h< kitchen Jenn» Miller reached it .c to. sec onds. "God," she prayed "make them answer—make them hur ry ” Until the doorman's slow ‘Hello" crept up sixteen stories to her ear. She spoke rapidly, concisely “John, this is Mrs. Montgomery Listen, a young man in a rac coon coat is on his way down now in my elevator. wt:b another ’Just stopping now?’ " She took a quick deep breath "Tell him —the younger man—he has left some money tn my apartment. A check for twenty thousand dollars, made out In his name, tel) him. Twenty thousand. Yes. that’s right I’m holding it for him. Hurry!" She hooked up the receiver She walked out into the living room and sat in a chair aud waited again. • She thought. “It’ll lake a minute or two He’ll have to ;el| Williams something or other And the ele. ator — slow — tie couldn't possibly get here yet.” She thought. "I might have made it twenty-two thousand That’s what the last balance was. Twenty-two thousand, four hundred and He’ll come Don't worry. He'll come. It’s a lot of money. He wants to go to Eu-ope. and he wants a spe eial-buiit car ..” Her fingers pulled and shredded a little handkerchief Her red mouth trembled, and he bit at it. In a minute. In just a mln ute now. Don't worry—yet . "I’ll count to a hundred.” she thought childishly. "Then he’ll be here.” She counted as far as nine; forgot to count further. "Maybe," she thought, "something's wrong with the elevator.” Minutes More minutes. How long had it been’ Long enough, surely Too long. "Oh. God!” she moaned aloud Her ears strained for a sound. There was no sound She got up difficultly, and went to the outer door, and looked Into the ■ corridor. No sound Nothing "Maybe the doorman didn't 1 catch him.” She telephoned down again. The doormen’s 1 voice sounded dazed "I told 1 him, all right,” he said. “I told him just what you told me. But . he said it wasn’t his. and be ■ went on out.” She left the receiver hanging by its cord. She walked like a sleepwalker through the rooms . Into her bedroom She snut the door and locked it and lay down i on her bed. She thought. “He is ■ gone. He Is gone.” She diJ not cry. There were I no tea s for this. ■ “He is gone I have lost him . I shall — never — see him — I again.” Her life was over, then. Oh : she would go on living, she I would eat, and sleep, move about the world: but her life was | over. Roger was gone, and she could not bring him back or I bribe him hack Or bribe hln. back. She > thought about that. Hours she > lay there, thinking, staring 1 Until sbe was very old and very wise Until she knew at last that, though her heart bled dry. she could be glad, she could say . to herself. “Well done.” i , © JUvClure Newspaper Bpndtcat*