Indianapolis Times, Volume 35, Number 241, Indianapolis, Marion County, 16 February 1923 — Page 8

8

ALICE ADAMS by BOOTH TARKINGTON Second novel In Tift Times series by Indiana writers. * Copyright, 1921, by Donbleday, Page & Cos.

UT I told you to tell anyL/ body we were not at home," Mrs. Adams returned. “Who Is it?" “Say he name Mr. Law.” "We don’t know any Mr. Law,' "Yes’m; he know you. Say he anxious to speak Mr. Adams. He he wait,” "Tell him Mr. Adorns is engaged.” "Hold on a minute,” Adams intervened. “Law? No. I don’t know any Mr. Law. You sure you got the name right?” "C ay he name Law," Gertrude replied, looking at the celing to express her fatigue. “Law. 'S all he tell me; ’e all I know.” Adams frowned. "Law,” he said. “Wasn't tl maybe ‘Lohr?’ ” “Law,” Gertrude repeated. 'S all he tell me; ’s all 1 know.” “What's he look like?” * “He ain’t much,” she said. “ ’Bout you’ age; got brustly white mustache, nice eyeglasses.” “It’s Charley Lohr!” Adams exclaimed. “I ll go see what he want3.” “But, Virgil,” his wife remonstiated, “do finish your coffee; he might stay all evening. Maybe he’s come to call." Adams laughed. "He isn’t much of a caller, I expect. Don’t worry; I’ll take him up to my room.” And turning toward Russell, “Ah—if you’ll just excuse me,” he said; and went out to his visitor. "When he had gone, Mrs. Adams finished her coffee, and, hating glanced intelligently from her guest to her daughter, shd arose. “I think perhaps I ought to go and shake hands with Mr. Lohr, myself,” she said, adding in explanation to Russell, as she reached the door, “He’s old friend of my husband’s, and it’s a very long time since he’s been here.” Alice nodded and smiled to her brightly, but upon the closing of the door, the smile vanished; all her liveliness disappeared, and with this change of expression her complexion itself appeared to change, so that- her rouge became obvious, for she was pale beneath it. However, Russell did not see the alteration, for he did not look at her, and it was but a momentary lapse—the vacation of a tired girl, who for ten seconds lets herself look as she feels. Then she shot her vivacity back into place as by some powerful spring. “Penny for your thoughts!” she cried, and tossed one of the wilted roses at him. across the table. “I’ll bid more than a penny; lil bid tuppence—no, a poor little dead rose—a rose for your thoughts, Mr. Arthur Russell! What are they?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t any.” "No, of course not,” she said. “Who could have thoughts in weather Uke this? Will you ever forgive us?” “What for?” “Malting you eat such a heavy dinner—l mean look at such a heavy dinner, because you certainly didn’t do more than look at it—on such a night! But the crime - draws to a close and you can begin to cheer up!” She laughed gaily, and. rising, moved to the door. “Let’s go In the other room; your fearful duty is almost done, and you can run home as soon as you want to. That’s what you’re dying to do.” “Not qt all,” he said in a voice so feeble that she laughed aloud. “Good gracious!” she cried. “I hadn’t realized it was that bad!” For this, though he contrived to laugh, he seemed to have no verbal retort whatever: but followed her into the “living-room,” where she stopped and turned, facing him. “Has it really been so frightful?” she asked. “Why, of course_ not. Not at all.” "Os couree yes, though, you mean!” “Not at all. It’s been most kind of your mother and father and you.” “Do you know,” she said, “you’ve never once looked at me for more than a second at a time the whole evening? And it seemed to me I looked rather nice tonight, too!” "You ahvays do.” he murmured. “I don’t see how you know,” she returned; and then stepping closer to him, spoke with gentle solicitude: “Tel! me; you're really feeling wretchedly, aren’t you? I know you’ve got a fearful headache, or something. Tell me!” "Not af all.” “You are ill —I’m sure of it ” “Not at all.” “On your word?” “I’m really quite all right.” “But if you are—” she began; and then, looking at him with a desperate sweetness, as if this were her last resource to rouse him, “What’s the matter. little boy?” she said with lisping fendemess. “Tell auntie!”

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It was a mistake, for he seemed to finch, and to lean backward, however, sightly. She turned away Instantly, with a flippant lift and drop of both hands. “Oh, my dear!” she laughed. “I won’t eat you!” And as the discomfited young man watched her, seeming able to lift his eyes, now that her back was turned, she went to the front door and pushed cpen the screen. "Let’Sfcgo out on the porch,” she said. “Where we belong!” Then, when he had followed her jfut, and they were seated, “Isn’t this better?” she asked. “Don’t you feel more like yourself out here?” He began a murmur: “Not at ” But she cut him off sharply: "Please don’t say ‘Not at all’ again!” “I'm sorry.” “You do seem sorry about something,” she said. "What is it? Isn’t it time you were telling me what’s the matter?” “Nothing. Indeed nothiqg’s the matter. Os course onte is rather affected by such weather as this. It may make one a little quieter than usual, of course.” ' She sighed, and let the tired muscles of her face rest. Under the hard fights, indoors, they had served her until they ached, and it was a luxury to feel that in the darkness no grimaeings need call upon them. * “Os course, if you won’t tell me ” she said. “I can only assure you there’s nothing to tell.” "I know what an ugly little house it Is,” she said. '‘Maybe it was the furniture—or mama’s vases that upset you. Or was it mama herself—or papa?” "Nothing ‘upset’ me.” At that she uttered a monosyllable of doubting laughter. "I -wonder why you say that.” 4 "Because It’s so.” * “No. It’s because you’re too. kind, or too conscientious, or too embarrassed —anyhow too something—to tell me.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hands, in the reflective attitude she knew how to make graceful. "I have a feeling that you’re not going to tell me,” the said, slowly. “Yes—even that you’re never going to tell me. I wonder—l wonder ” "Yes? What do you wonder?” “I was just thinking—l wonder if they haven't done it. after all.” < “I don’t understand.” N “I wonder,” she went on. still slowly, and In a voice of reflection, “I wonder who has been talking about me to you, after all? Isn’t that jt?” “Not at —” he began, but checked himseif r.nd substituted another form of denial. “Nothing is it.” “Are you sure?” "Why, yejs.” "How curious!” she said. “Why?” “Because all evening you’ve been so different.” “But in this weather—” “No. That wouldn’t make you afraid to look at me all evening!” “But I did look at you. Often.” “No. Not really a look.” “But I’m looking at you now.” “Yes—in the dark!” she said. “No — the weather might make you even* quieter than usual, but it wouldn't strike you so nearly dum|}. No —and it wouldn’t make you seem to be under such a strain —as if you thought •uly to escape!” i “But I haven't —” “You shouldn’t,” she interrupted, | gently. “There’s nothing you have to escape from, you know. You aren't committed to—to this friendship.” “I’m sorry you think —’’ he began, but did not complete the fragment. She took it up. “You’re sorry I think you're so different, you mean to say, don’t you? Never mind; that’s what you did mean to say, but you couldn’t finish it because you’re not good at deceiving.” “Oh. no,” he protested, feebly. ‘l’m not deceiving. “I’m —” “Never mind,” she said again. “You're sorry I think you re so different—and all in one day—since last night. Yes, your voice sounds sorry, too. It sounds sorrier than it would just because of my thinking some--hing you could change my mind about in a minute —so it means you’re sorry you are different.” “No—l-—” But disregarding the faint denial, “Never mind,” she said. “Do you remember one night when you told me that nothing anybody else could do would ever keep you from coming here? That if you—if “you left me—it would be because I drove you away myself?” “Yes,” he said, huskily. “It was true.” “Are you sure?” “Indeed I am,” he answered In a low voice, but with conviction. "Then— ’’ She paused. “Well—but I haven’t driven you away.” “No.”* “And yet you’ve gone,” she said, quietly. “Do I seem so stupid as all that?” "You know what I mean.”’ She leaned back In her chair again, and her hands, inactive for once, lay motionless in her lap. When she spoke It was In a,rueful whisper: “I wonder if I have driven you away?" “You’ve done nothing—nothing at all,” lje said., “I wonder ” she said, once more, but she stopped. In hefr mind she was going back over their time together since the first meeting—fragments of talk, moments of silence, little things of no importance, little things that might be important; moonshine, sunshine', starlight; and her thoughts zigzagged among the jumbling memories; but, as if she made for herself a plctore of all these fragments, throwing them upon the ..canvas haphazard, she saw them all just touched with the one tainting quality that gave them coherence, the faint, false haze site had put over this friendship by her own pretendings. Ar.d. if this terrible dinner, or anything, or everything, had shown that, saffron tint in its true color to the’ man at her side, last night almost a lover, then she had indeed of herself driven him away, and might well feel that she was lost. ' “Do you know?” she said, suddenly, In a clear, loud voice. "I have the strangest feeling. I feel as if I were going to bo with you only about five minutes more in all the rest of my lifenv .. *

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“Why, no,” he said. “Os course I’m comm* to see you—often. 1—” “No,” she interrupted. “I’ve never bad a feeling like this,-before. It’s — it’s just so; that’s all! You’re going —why. you’re never coming .here again!” She stood up, abruptly, beginning to tremble all over. "Why, it's finished, isn’t it?” she said, and her trembling was manifest now in her voice. “Why, it’s all over, isn’t It? Why, yes!"

OUT OUR WAY—By WILLIAMS

THE OLD HOME TOWN—By S WWIEN

He had risen as she did. "I’fn afraid you’re awfully tired and nervous,” he said. “I really ought to be going.” “Yes, of course you ought,” she cried, despairingly. “There’s nothing else for you to do. When anything’s spoiled, people can’t do anything but run away from it. So good-by!” "It least,” -he returned, huskily, ‘‘■we’ll only—onjy say good-night.” Then, as moving to go, he stumbled steps, “You poor

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

thing!” she said, with quavering laughter. “Don’t you know you can’t go without your hat?” Then, as they faced each other for the short moment which both of them knew would he the last of all their veranda moments, Alice’s broken laughter grew louder. “What\a thing to say!” she cried. “What a romantic parting—talking about hatsj” Her laughter continued as he turned away, but other sounds came from

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within the house, clearly audible -with the opening of a door upstairs—a long and wailing cry of lamentation in the voice of Mrs. Adams. Russell paused at the steps, uncertain, but Alice waved to him to‘ go on. “Oh, don’t bother,” she said. “We have lots of that in this funny little old house! Good-by!” And ash went down the steps she ran back into the house and closed the door heavily behind her. %

FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS—By BLOSSER

OUR BOARDING HOUSE—By AHERN

CHAPTER XXIII HER mother’s wailing could still be heard from overhead, though more faintly and old Charley Lohr was coming down the stairs alone. He looked at Alice compassionately. “I was just cornin’ to suggest maybe you’d excuse yourself from your company,” he said. “Your mother was bound not to disturb you, and tried her best to keep you from heaxin’

FRIDAY, FEB. 16, 1023

—B^ALLMAN

—By AL PobEN

how she’s takin’ on, but I probably you better see to her.’ “Yes, I’ll come. What’s the matter?” 4 “Well,” he said. “I only stepped over to offer my sympathy and services, as it were. I thought of course you folks knew all about it. Fact is. it was in the evening paper—just a little bit of an item on the back page, of course.” (To Be Continued.)