Indianapolis Times, Volume 43, Number 183, Indianapolis, Marion County, 10 December 1931 — Page 17

PEC. 10, 1031.

THREE KINDS of LOVE ,#. BY KAY CLEAVER I STRAHAN ££&

BEGIN HERE TODAY ANNE. CECILY and MARY-FRANCES ETNWtCK live with their.grandparents, once wealthy, now to impoverished that Anne’* and Cecily's earnings support the eoiuehold. The sisters have been orphaned since childhood The grandparents arc known Tespect vely as "ROSALIE ' and GRAND ' and they insist on keeping tip pretenses of their lormer wealth. Anne. 28, and Cecily, 22. do secretarial work and Mary-Franrea, is. -nil in school. All the a.rls arc attractive. when the *torv open Anne has been engaged to PHILIP ECROYD, young lawyer, for eight year- They can not marry because Anne knows ner sisters and Orandparen■ % depend upon her to manage their home NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER ONE (Continued) Grand, sensing perhaps the inalienable right of mortgages to melodrama, produced quantities of melodrama, and Rosalie wept some, through her promise never to mention such a thing again. There was no pressing need at the time for a mortgage. Part of the s4l a week had to be put aside for what Cecily called the "Very-Fancy Educational Fund" 'Mother, sometimes for a joke, had called the baby "Very-Fancy;" Grand and Rosalie had not approved), but the taxes were lower, since the new appraisal, and a slick shoemaker down the street put on half soles and even small patches so that they scarcely showed. Grand rarely borrowed more than dollar or two at a time. It always bad to be change, small change, that he needed. He began his new venture in a humble way. At, any rate, the cost of fitting up his workshop in one of tlie spare bedrooms was just under the amount Ann had planned to spend on her winter coat,. (Cecily had bought her coat winter before last, so if was Ann told Philip Ecrovd i Phil and Ann had been ensued only two years in 1924: Phil was graduated front law school that same summer), it saved on car fare and lunch money, and Grand was hanpier puttering around at home. Grand was not puttering. Grand was hard at work on his model for airplane wings fold and unfold. "There is a fortune in it.” he said, implying, however, that he held a low opinion of persons who cared for fortunes. "Ah, yes—an unlimited fortune." ana T''OR some pesky reason the JT plague-taken pulleys that w'ere to manipulate the wings would not work, always, with the required degree of exactitude. It did not matter greatly, because their perversity gave Grand an opportunity to get to work in earnest on his collapsible fire escape, and this carried straight on and naturally to something new in elevators—a space-saving device which no one, perhaps not even Grand, entirely understood. Sectional doors came next. The principle was involved, but the point was that two or three inches of a door could be opened, while the remainder of the door stood firmly closed. Failure of the doors was tragedy, for with them Grand wearied of things folding and collapsible, and in the spring of the year 1929 turned his attention to radio development. The electric bills mounted high, and the trifles that Grand needed for his experiments were priced ruinously. It was in May 1929—0dd of Ann to remember the date—that Phil told her for the first time, flatly and with no softening diminutive, that Ehe was a fool. "You," he elaborated, “pretend to despise your grandparents’ sentimentality. You are as sentimental as they are, every bit—both you and Cecily are.” Ann said. "Why, Phil Ecroyd, w r e are not! And, anyway,” Ann said, hut more weakly, "Cissy and I do have to remember that they have g'ven us a home all these years.” Philip, a handsome, dignified young lawyer by now—struggling might be added, except that it scents redundant—merely shrugged his shoulders and snid, "Oh, yeah?” as it was being snid in 1929. Ann argued, "Hut what can we do when he asks for things?" ’ Do? Simply tell the old gentleman that, you can not afford these things. Refuse to buy any more of them. Gei h'nt a stick to whittle. Put, your fool down. Wouldn't that be more sensible?" Ann said. "Yes. dear." as it has been said by placatory women since the year one. Though, of course, she did not put her foot down. It was in July, 1929—0dd of Cecily to remember the date, but it was she who went on the first errand —that the two elder Fenwick girls discovered pawnshops and began to eat, according to Cecily, mother’s and father's wedding presents. They ate the little hand-carved chest that the professor of romance languages had bought in Genoa: they ate the clear ringing brass bowl that mother's girl friend had sent from Ceylon. They ate Grandma Tamasie's silver- tea service (yes one of the Tamasies, but she and grandpa had both died long before Ann was born), and quantities of flat silver. Cut glass and hand-painted china proved inedible. For Thanksgiving they'had father’s hand-made trout rod. and his set of ivory chessmen went for Christmas. a a a THREE days after Christmas. Grand took to his bed with a bad attack of quinsy and arose from it rarly in February, pessimistic as to the future for radios and deeply interested in the improvement of kettles used to generate steam in sick rooms. The wedding presents were pawned with no hopf*of redemption. But gadget things for steam kettles were inexpensive, and the VeryFancy Educational Fund, severely threatened, had not beeij touched. The relief was so great' that this time, when Cecily said to Ann—or perhaps it was Ann who said it to Cecny this time—" Grand and Rosalie don’t know —they still think they are supporting the family, ’■ smiles could be exchanged about it. The remark was made in the upstairs hall, directly after a conversation with Grand in which he had said that it had occurred to him that his illness, the holidays, one thing and another, might have been rather a drain on the girls’ pocket money. Rosalie had intimated something of the sort. He intended, of course, to repay them. His granddaughters— heaven bless and keep them!—should not be out of pocket money on his account. So. if they would make an Itemized record of their expenditures. he would attend to it, and shortly. No—no! No quibbling now. Payment should be arranged, payment in full, and very soon. As the girls’ heels clicked down the uncarpcted front stairs (.the

carpet had been sold to a junk man for G 5 cents three years ago) Ann said, "They must know. But they don’t realize it, or face it, or something. Phil thinks we should make them understand.” "What earthly use?” asked Cecily. "It wouldn’t change anything. It might worry them, but it wouldn’t help us.” "Phil says— ’’ Cecily interrupted. Philip as an oracle had a maddening habit of being right. "Ann. angel,” she said, "don’t fall into the habit of quoting Phil all the time. Haven’t you noticed that the wives who everlastingly quote their husbands are never, never quoted themselves by same husbands?” "I’m not a wife,” Ann said in a chilly way she had developed recently. Cecily giggled. Ann did not. "It sounds,” explained Cecily, “so sort of—well, immoral jsaid like that. Phil’s not a husband would sound much better.” "Wait until you are in love” said Ann, "and engaged, and you won’t think it is so funny—not being able to be married.” a a a IT was impossible for Cecily to understand why Ann should wish to marry Phil with his conspicuous good looks, his inevitable rightness, his sterling qualities, his mustache, his overshoes, and his famishing sol conceit. It was almost impossible for Cecily to like Phil as she felt he deserved to be liked; so she protested and declared She never had thought that, nor anything connected with it, funny at all. Ann said, "Yes, but you never have been in love,” and made it an accusation. "I've tried, but it's like Gfand’s inventions—it won't work.” "Last spring I was afraid,” said Ann, and did not notice that she had said "afraid,” “that you were falling in love with Rodger French.” "I might have, if he hadn’t said I was ‘pleasant looking’ and if he could have found anything admirable about me besides my ears.” "Your ears?” "Don’t you remember how he was always talking about my ears? How they were little and flat and showed pink through the edges in the sun like a child’s? I loved it the first time, and kept running about with my hand mirror looking for a sunny spot in the house. "But after a dozen times or so it got sour, and we ‘parted forever,’ as Rosalie says, when I blew up and told him I liked my flatteries fresh like my vegetables.” “You weren't in love with the one before him, either, were you? What was his name ” "Mr. Toomire, he used to say over the telephone. ‘Miss Fenwick? This is Mr. Toomire speaking.’ Don’t you remember, he worked in that leather place, and he talked Rosalie and Grand into giving me that silly overnight bag for Christmas, when we were so poor that year, and I needed anew umbrella. I never forgave him ” "I didn’t mean him, silly! I meant the older, long, stringy one, who was always bringing you photographs of his family.” , “Emmit Herrick Moriarity, B. S. C. E. on his visiting cards, and he left a pack every time he came. He was kind of nice and Irishy, even if he was a freak. But, goodness, Ann, you’ve got me reminiscing like Rosalie. Why the questionnaire?” "I don’t know,” said Ann. "I was just sort of thinking that you—well, didn’t understand about love.” "I don’t,” said Cecily, "and I don’t want to ever.’ (February, 1930, was the date.) "When I see people who are in love—” she caught herself up and tucked in politely—“ Marta and Herbert, for example You and Phil are different, of course.” "Yes,” said Ann, and sighed. "Yes, T suppose Phil and I arer—different, of course.”

CHAPTER TWO THE date was April, 1030. The .strip of rubber on the windshield clickety-clickrd and swung down and around and up again, and down and around and up again, through the crawling drops on the small half circle of dimming glass. Street ears clanged and rain-damp people scurried, and shining umbrellas bobbed, and stop and go signals rang violently red and green. On the bridge the dull gray sky parted for one long slit of jade above the river's blue-black end, and here Barry said: “Look at that color!” and Cecily forgot for a moment that she was an inconsiderate idiot and that it was Anne's week to do the evening work. Across the bridge, twisting and. twining again through the mazes of traffic, she recalled her peccabilities blightingly and found hope in nothing but the tender cold roast beef and the caramel pudding she had hidden. Out of the traffic at last, and into the quieter suburban streets, where Barry could talk while he drove, she lost sight of the idiot and the roast and the pudding altogether, and remembered, just a moment too late, to say with the careful casualness she had planned, "We turn here.” “Here?” Harry McKeel stuck an arm through the opened window and brought his small car to an abrupt standstill. Cecily jolted forward in the seat, and he said. “Oh, sorry! Turn here, did you say? Up this road or whatever it is?” “It is the driveway to the house,” she said, and pressed her lips firmly together. There should be no apologies, no warnings as yet. The wheel turned slowly under his thin hands, and the car nosed its way into the gloomy tunnel made by the great scragglv, untrimmed trees. A hawthorn branch reached out and slapped it smartly. The low limb of a cedar menaced just ahead. The right front wheel splattered and splashed down into a deep puddle. Barry said. “Doggone!” and turned on the lights of the car, and Cecily, a novice with heroism, said, “Well?” in a voice that looked down its own nose. He explained: “I thought of the grandest speech as w r e turned into these woods—all about dryads and everything, and I had to pass it up because I decided that dryads weren't blond, and I tried to fix it up with a fairy princess, and that was too sappy, and the thing was in ruins in spite of its swell ending. “I might give a hint of the ending—it was all about how I’d hoped against hope for a mere mortal but

had known better. Fixed up, that would be pretty good, wouldn't it?” man CECILY laughed. Relief made it louder than usual, and % sheer happiness made it last longer. Mary-Frances, who since she first had spied the car from the oriel windows in the parlor had been standing, ears alert, in the front doorway, heard the laugh and closed the door softly and sped to the kitchen. "Hey, Ann,” she announced. “Cissy’s coming home with a man in a car. I’ll bet SIO,OOO it’s anew boy friend. "I’ll bet he’s the one she met at Marta’s party and has been so cuckoo about. I'll bet she’s bringing him home for dinner. I’ll bet ” Ann, slicing carrots, orange and yellow rounds that clinked on the bottom of the kettle, Inserted ab-sent-mindedly, “Don’t say, ‘l’ll bet’ like that all the time, Mary-Frances. The idea! It sounds horrid. You should hear yourself, and .you wouldn't do it.” "bringing him home to dinner—the boy friend,” Mary-Frances insisted. "No,” Ann said, and sliced the carrots. "She wouldn’t think of bringing any one home to dinner—especially without telephoning ahead of time. She's probably coming home to change her dress ” Mary-Frances had rushed away through -the butler’s pantry, bent on reaching the mirror in the dining room —a monstrous, chilly place, where, painted on the high ceiling, great fat fish lay inert in dead-looking bottle-green waves. One long slide across the hardwood floor, for which Grand had once refused an offer of SSOO, SI,OOO, $2,000 (the sums varied according to Grand’s memory and moods, and not according to his honesty), brought her to the massive builtin buffet and the mirror. She tipped her head back and bit her lips and pursed them into a soft pink rosette; she dampened her two little fingers with her tongue and traced her fine brown eyebrows; she pinched a deeper color into her cheeks, and preened her brown bobbed hair. What if she was only 15 years old? Wasn’t she tall for her age? Dreadfully tall? Didn’t everybody think she was 18 years old, anyway? Well, everybody. Just everybody. Well, then, everybody but the teachers and kids at school. Well, boys and girls, then. They were not children. Everybody. ana IN the front hall Cecily was laughing again, above the pleasant undertones of a masculine laugh and voice. Mary-Frances had to walk right up to them before Cecily said, "Oh, Mary-Frances, dear!” as if she were amazed to find a third person existing anywhere in the world. “This is my little sister, Mary-Frances, Mr. McKeel.” Cecily, Mary-Frances knew, would like to have her curtsey, but she wouldn’t do it—not at her age. She bowed, primly—though demurely was the word she had in mind —and stuck out a small hand that had not been washed since she had come home from school. He was polite, of course, but, in so far as Mary-Frances was able to judge by the dim light shed from the one small globe high in the hall ceiling, Cecily’s admiration of him was unwarranted. He was an inch or two above average height, but Cissy had said that he was tall. True, she had added that he was thin; MaryFrances substituted "skinny” as more apt. His hair, which Cissy had described as auburn, was merely darkened, and he wore it too short, and he should, at least, smooth it down with his hands, as Phil and the movie men smoothed theirs, if he thought it unmanly to look in the mirror. She could reach no decision about his eyes—Cecily had described them as jolly and brown—because he was staring too hard at Cissy, who, in spite of the fact that her nose needed powdering, looked prettier than usual, though she was acting awfully silly and laughing at all the time. She shouldn't let this Mr. McKeel see that she was so excited. Rosalie had told and told her, had told all three of them, exactly how to act with men: “Nonchalance savored with winsomeness; dignity softened with coyness.” The door on the right of the hall led into the library; the door on the left led into the music room. Cecily paused for an instant between the two. She had passed by the parlor: it was grimly impossible with its what-nots and horsehair and family portraits, painted by Grand's friend who had decorated the ceilings in the house. (To Be Continued)

Crossword Puzzle and Sticklers on Page 15

TARZAN AT THE EARTH’S.CORE

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“This is your world,” said Tarzan to the Red Flower, “what do you suggest we do now?” “We should descend the mountains,” replied.. ..Jana, “for it is-in the mountains that Carb v and his warriors will first search for us. In the lowland country we can-turn back toward Zoram in greater safety.” Both of them being unfamiliar with this section of the inner, the descent proved slow and dangerous.

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At last, coming out from a long winding canyon, they found themselves on the edge of an almost treeless plain. The girl gave a little gasp as she recognized where the trail had led them. “This is the Gyor Cors,” she exclaimed. “May we not have the bad fortune to meet a Gyor!” “And what so dreadful is a Gyor?” asked Tarzan. “It is a terrible creature,” said Jana. “I Jiave never seen one but the warriors of Zoram have seen many of them.”

—By Ahern

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1 1931, by Edgar Rice Bcrroughs, Inc. AC rights reserved.

The land before them rolled on and on, curving slowly upward into the distant haze. “Do men live in this strange place?’ 'asked Tarzan. “Only the Horibs,” answered the girl. “And what are they?” again inquired the ape-man The girl shuttered. “Let us not speak of ‘ them,” she whispered in an awed tone. “They are more horrible than the Gyors. Men say they have no hearts, for they are devoid of friendship, sympathy and love.” “None of which sounds pleasant,” said Tarzan lightly. But let us go on, it seems peaceful and quiet enough.” ,

OUT OUR WAY

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—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

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The eternal noon-day sun shone down uilbn the handsome giant and the lovely, primitive girl as they made their way over the plain, through grasses that gently waved knee-high. Tarzan of the Apes was restless. Unfamiliar scents came to his nostrils, tellin| him strange creatures were about. It aroused him to a sense of impending evil. Just as they had crossed a little stream, the girl touched Tarzan's arm and pointed. The thing she saw, Tarzan had seen at the same instant. “A Gyor,” she cried. Quick, lie down and hide in tjjie grass.”

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—By Crane

—By Small

—By Martin