Indianapolis Times, Volume 39, Number 72, Indianapolis, Marion County, 3 August 1927 — Page 14

PAGE 14

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BEGIN tIERE TODAY JERRY MACKLYN, advertising manager for the Peach Bloom Cosmetics Cos., proposes to VERA CAMERON, his secretary, that he transform her from the old-maid type she is into a beauty with the use of the company cosmetics and that her photographs, taken during the experiment, be used in Peach Bloom advertising. Vera indignantly refuses but when she falls suddenly in love with a man whom she hears called SCHUYLER, she feels the need to be beautiful above everything else. She overhears Schuyler say he will be in Lake Minnetonka in June and Vera resolves to go there. Vera’s sea-green eyes remind Jerry of an uncaptioned Sunday supplement picture he has in his desk and he brings it out-nd asks the beauty specialist to use it as a model in refashioning Vera. Vera’s aunt. FLORA CARTWRIGHT, is amazed at the change wrought in her once homely niece and is likewise a little Jealous. ~ Vera begs Jerry not to use her photographs iri the advertising. He tens her if she will give up the trip to Minnetonka, he will tear the ads up. She refuses. Just before train time, he comes to her apartment, tells her he loves her and begs her to give up the trip. They part under strained conditions and Vera does not expect to see him again. However. he rushes into her Pulman Just before the train is to leave and gives her a sealed letter which he cautions her not to open unless she is "caught in a Jam. NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER XII aT was nearly twelve o’clock that night when Vera Cameron had completed preparations son bed in her berth in the train that was speeding her toward adventure. But she could not sleep. Twice she turned on the light above her head and made sure that money, tickets and baggage checks were safe, tucked into a corner of the pillowslip. She laughed at herself, sitting up In the narrow bed to gaze at her reflection in the strip of mirror between the windows. The sight of her camellia-white face, framed in a close-lying swirl of burnished

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i copper waves, of her wide green eyes, of her perfect Grecian nose and her softly curved mouth never failed to give her a shock of joy, of amazed wonder. She pressed the light button, then lay back on the fat Pullman pillow, smiling to herself in the dark, repeating soundlessly the “beauty creed” which Flora Cartwright had insisted that she memorize: “I believe that I am utterly beautiful and utterly desirable. I believe that no man can look upon me without pleasure and without desire.” “But I can’t believe that,” she told herself. “It can’t be true of me—of Vera Victoria Cameron! Oh,” she moaned half aloud, clenching her hands on her breast, “I don’t want to remember! I want to think only of the future, of VeeVee Cameron as she now is and will be!” But she could not keep from remembering. She could not keep from living over a scene which had stamped itself indelibly on the sensitive mind of the child she had been then— A mean little room in a mean little house in a mean little Missouri town. A gray coffin, of cheap painted wood, resting on two cheap pine chairs, which her mother had painted black and orange. A child —herself at nine—crouching on the floor at the head of the coffin, tears streaming out of her eyes, slipping down over her pinched, freckled little face. A thin little claw of a hand lifting a heavy braid of ash-colored hair with which to dab at the tears which had been blistering her eyelids since her mother had died. She saw the miserable, scrawny little thing pull herself up by the back of the chair to look yet again on the face of the woman in the coffin—a sweet, sad face that had been so beautiful, and that was beautiful again in the serenity of death. She heard her grief-hoarsened, frightened voice crying out, “Mama! Mama!” and again, as if she were living the scene for the first time, she heard with startling clearness the rough whiplash of her father's voice: “Get out o’ here and make me a pot o’ coffee! Ain’t a damn bit o’ sense in a great big girl like you whining and taking on for two days on a stretch. Your ma ain’t coming back, for all your blubbering, and the quicker you take on some o’ her work the better you’ll be. “Get out o’ here now, and stir up a batch o’ biscuits, too. I ain’t had a mouthful o’ food but what the neighbors brought in since she was took!” “No, no! I don’t want to remember!” the girl moaned, her lovely head worrying the pillow in desperation. But she could not shut the floodgates of memory. She saw herself cooking greasy meals and cleaning the mean little house, overspending her slight strength so that her father would not beat her. Then she saw herself alone for days, too frightened to tell the neighbors that her father had deserted her, so terrified with loneliness that she would have welcomed his coarsely handsome, drink-rav-aged face and his brutal voice. Then she saw herself standing before a big-bosomed woman in the orphan asylum, trying to shrink into herself, hating herself for being so little and pinched and ugly. She heard the other children taunting her, “Greeney eyes! Freckleface!” Aunt Flora had been in Europe when Vivian’s mother died. It was Aunt Flora, newly married to her second husband —Jack Preston, who now wanted to marry Aunt Flora again—who came to the orphans’ home to rescue her 13-year-old niece. Beautiful, glittering, glamorous Aunt Flora, draped about with her husband’s love as with a shining cloak. Aunt Flora saying, “This can’t be Vee-Vee—Grace’s baby! Why, Jack, Grace was the loveliest thing! Much prettier than I am!” Later she had heard Aunt Flora saying to Jack Preston: “The poor little thing is so pitifully plain, Jack. It will be a miracle if she ever marries!” Vera wondered, sobbing a little with self-pity, if it had been any wonder that she had never had gay good times like other girls, handicapped as she had been by herViwn knowledge of her plainness and by her aunt’s thoughtless prophecy. Her pride trampled, but not killed by life in the orphans’ home, had made her fiercely determined not to

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accept her aunt’s bounty any longer than was absolutely necessary. She had studied far into the night, had earned the contemptuous reputation of being a bookworm, and a dig and a teacher’s pet, but she had plowed grimly through high school in three years, and had then worked for two years—until she was 18—in a Fourteenth Street department store in New York, saving her money for a business course. And at nineteen she had gone to work as a stenographer, savagely determined to be the best private secretary in New York. If love and marriage were not for her, she would force life to give her the next best thing—success. She had lived alone much of the time, working overtime in every job she had held, cooking her own frugal meals, making her own dowdy dresses, studying. Intermittently, between her aunt’s marriage, she had lived with her, sharing the expenses of the tasteful little apartment which Aunt Flora’s alimony or, If the husband had died, his insurance money and savings provided. Aunt Flora had never married a rich man; her four marriages had been love matches. And between them, while she was waiting to fall in love again, she had wheedled Vera into staying with her, because she feared loneliness more than anything in the world except old age. But the price that Vera had paid for a more comfortable home and more esthetic surroundings had been heavy, for Flora Cartwright had unconsciously nursed the girl’s feeling of inferiority, had convinced her anew every day of their life together that she, Vera Victoria Cameron, was not made for love and marriage. And now, through a miracle wrought by Jerry Macklyn, who, after all, had only done what Aunt Flora could have done at any time during the last five years, she was beautiful, she was desirable. Peter Darrow, mooning at her like a love-sick calf, the men at the office—married and single—trying to take her out to lunch, Jerry Macklyn himself asking her to marry him. For the first time in six weeks, since the miracle had been happening, she had leisure to taste the poignant sweetness of the cup of life which Jerry had held to her famished lips. 'Oh, it was good, good! Her body quivered with quick,

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shuddering sighs of happiness, of anticipation of something much more wonderful which was about to happen. But—would It happen? She had fallen in love so ridiculously with a man she had never seen before, a man who had looked through her as if she did not exist. She was like her mother, who had fallen in love with John Cameron the first time she had seen him at a country dance, had married him the next day, throwing up her job as a school teacher in the little Missouri town. She was like Aunt Flora, who boasted that she had fallen in love at sight with every man she had married. It was in her blood — this reckless plunging Into love, this mad impulse to fly after the beloved and capture him at any cost. She went to sleep, murmuring Jerry’s name. But the face of which she dreamed was dark, aristocratic, heart-breakingly handsome. The next morning, after dressing herself with almost prayerful carefulness, she had a leisurely, expensive breakfast in the dining car, deferentially attended by the chief steward himself, and gloatingly conscious of every admiring glance that the diners—men and women bothcast at her. The train reached the little station of Minnetonka at half-past eleven. During the three-mile drive to the hotel on the lake Vera became painfully conscious that at least two of her fellow-passengers were regarding her with more than usual interest and curiosity. They were a young couple, fashionably dressed, evidently married. Vera, out of the corner of her eye, saw the woman whispering to her husband, glancing from the initials on Vera’s bags to her face. The husband shook his head at first, smiling indulgently, then, on looking more closely at the embarrassed girl who tried to pretend ignorance of their scrutiny, he nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing with speculation. “I wonder what’s wrong with me,” Vera worried. “Am I too well dressed, or not well enough dressed, or what? But they act as if they thought they recognized me. Oh, well, it’s silly to worry. If my own aunt didn’t recognize me after my transformation, I don’t see how they could.” But she was growing more worried every minute. Fear froze her into a statue of arrogance. What if they did see through her—recognized her as a stenographer on a two weeks’ vacation playing the great lady? Would they try to have her put out of their sacred hotel? (To Be Continued) Vers encounters the man of her Jream a—Schuyler. And this time he doc* not look through her, but st her.

Brain Teaser Answers

Answers to Brain Teaser questions on page 4: 1. Guglielmo is the Italian equivalent of William. 2. “Mad” Anthony Wayne was a general in the American Revolution. 3. August gets its name from Augustus Caesar, Roman general who won throe battles in this month, formerly called Sextilis, the sixth month. 4. Andrew Jackson’s cabinet was called “The Kitchen Cabinet.” 5. The tomato was once called the love apple. 6. Thomas Jefferson was Washington’s Secretary of State. 7. Members of the Society of Friends ar commonly called Quakers. 8. The pawnbrokers sign, three balls, was originally the symbol of the Lombards, Italian bankers. 9. Thomas Jonathan Jackson was nicknamed "Stonewall.” 10. Dan Beard is chief of the Boy Scouts in America. 11. Melvin Wilkerson, appointed April 27, 1919.

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