Indianapolis Times, Indianapolis, Marion County, 23 April 1947 — Page 17

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 1947

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i THE STORY: After a lifetime of daseling the world, the great sstigis, Sophie van Eyck, comes home te lhe little Maine coast town where she was barn. Widow of an international banker, she had lived camoriably on the Riviera until’ the war, her party are Victorim Jenkins, her "sranddsnghter, and Marcel Perrault, an elderly Frenchman who Is her portrait painter, Sophie has bought the old Peabody house on exclusive Goose Neck point. Sir Charles Madden, ber butler, has seen to It that all Madame's furnishings are in place before her arrival,

CHAPTER 3 THAT NIGHT, although she was in her own bed again and the aw was as refreshing as a drink from the Fountain of Youth, Sophie did not sleep well, At first she thought the trouble might be Luka's dinner, which had been heavy and succulent, | ldrowned in rich. wine sauces. But| there was no reason why gulyas and | paprika should have made her! (thoughts run along in the same] {channels hour after sleepless hour as endlessly as 4 radio’ serial. There had never been doubts or {regrets on Sophie's conscience. She) {would not have changed an action] jor thought of her entire life~not though Sophje Caillere had endured unimaginable struggles and disappointments on the way to becoming Sophie van Eyck. There had been the flight from Maine, the {ignominy of failure in New York, the voyage to Europe as maid to a |circus aerialist; the days without a {meal in bitter Parisian winters, the humiliating jobs undertaken backstage—all before her feet had evei known the feel of the bottom rung of the ladder. all before ‘the purposeful starving and studying Wat had begun after the meeting with | Marcel. No, there were no regrets on Sophie's conscience—only people. | One person, particularly: Godfrey! | Mansridge, “

» ~ HE WAS STILL alive, she knew,

| {

| |

fs |

Return Engagement

(Copyright by Gwen Davenport; Distributed by NEA Service)

trailing clouds

ia chance to show he was sorry? |He had always been selfish, arro-

of long-vanishegd glory through the halls of a home for indigent actors, Since coming back to America, she bad thought of him frequently —sometimes with bitterness, more often with sorrow. Now she began to think of him with compunction, True, it wads he who had wronged her, yet ought she not to give him

gant, thoughtless, but was she not being al] these things by failing to get in touch with him? He, too, was elderly by now; he must also, judging from his address, be poor. And here she was in a {comfortable house, surrounded with {all the good things of material life —thanks to dear Max-—which she shared with Marcel, Sir Charles| and, of course, with Vicky. If with Marcel,.. why not with | Godfrey? If Marcel had given her! all his talent and all his life, ‘so, | partially, had Godfrey. Was she! not also in debt to him? She would write to" Godfrey in the morning. . n » » ONCE A YEAR—and it had been going on for a good many years now, in a good many countries— Marcel began a portrait of Sophie. However bored Sophie got with these recurring eternities of sitting still, she realized that as long as Marce] had dedicated his art exclu- | sively to her, it was incumbent upon her to pose for him gnnually and bliy the portrait for a sum sufficient to keep the artist in spending money, and jconsequently in self- | respect. On the morning he was to start, {Marcel darted about his room as if he had to get through what he was doing before catching a train. He wore his green smock, stiff with the paint drippings of a decade, and | the beret which he never removed | lest he take cold. “Help me,” he| {ordered Sir Charles. “I want to get {my easel set up. - Already it's ten jo'clock less ten and Sophie promised to sit for me at ten o'clock.” » » WHILE THEY w {Charles teased the Frejichman a little about the portrait. “Don't tell | {me it’s a year since you st the last one!” “Three hundred and sixty- five, days.” “This is leap year, you know,” said Sir Charles: “You could wait until tomorrow, His little joke was lost on Mar- |

ed Sir

By Gwen Davenport

armchair.” He began to pace. the distance between easel and chair, moving first one and then the other a few inches this way or that, “Velvet and brocade!” exclaimed Sir Charles. “Good Lord, do you want Madame to be roasted alive? By August she'll have to stop sitting —in velvet and brocade!” “By August,” sald Marcel, “she will probably be wearing furs.” He began talking half to himself, arms crossed under the shawl, “I loved he: What did I have to. give her? Nothing. Only everything, My art. Did I count the eost? No! I could have been the greatest of the Impressionists. I could have given my art to the world. Instead—I give it to Sophie.” This was a well worn conversational groove. “If you'd given it to the world,” said 8ir Charles impatiently, “it would have saved Sophie a good many tedious years of posing.” ” »

v MADAME'S BEDROOM door was

jopened across the hall and they | heard voice, carefully placed to carry just |

the magnificent, resonant

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES .

as far as the studio and 1 no farther. “Marcel! Are you ready for me?” The two men stepped to the door and stood in anticipation, one on each side of it. “Do not give her the letter,” Marcel whispered, “until after she has sat for me. It will be less disturbing.” As hér footsteps approached, they fell back slightly before. her coming, so that her first appearance of a morning in her household could have a little the quality of an Entrance. They did it unconsciously, and Sophie, walking in from the hall, was equally unconscious that her most ordinary movements partook of the theatfical. “Good morning, good morring,” » said the unique voice. Madame entered the studio. ~ ” ” SIR CHARLES and Marcel gazed at her~in admiration, almost as if they had never before beheld her. Her own knowledge that for up-

ward of forty years she had been a figure of world importance informed her every movement, adding dignity to her bearing and an invisible crown to the candent hair. “Sophie—but you are beautiful!” exclaimed Marcel, # ; “Good morning, Sophie,” . said Sir Charles, more restrained than the Frenchman and confining his compliments to ‘the pride and pleasure in his face. “Luka wants

to know if you would like her to try a New England holled dinner.” Sophie had moved to the window and stood, with one arm raised, in contemplation of the Hghthouay on the point.

WHAT DID. yor, Soy Sir Charles?” - “New England boiled dinner.” “Oh, no! Marcel would hate it.” “When in Rome—" offered Sir Charles hopefully, The boiled dinner had been his own ‘homesick idea, not that of the tempermental Hungarian cook. But Sophie had dismissed food from her mind, She was confident it “would .be as she and Marcel liked it anyway: light at breakfast, subtle and crisp at luncheon, luscious and palatable at dinner. She turned now from the view. Charles, did I have a telegram?” “No, Madame.” She sighed, Godfrey should have been more eager. He ought to have wired or telephoned in his intoxica~ tion from the knowledge he might see her soon, if-he chose. He should

feel as she did—a little tremulous, -: infinitely tender, all forgiving. But |

of course he never had. Why should he have changed? Perhaps he even preferred the Actors’ Home.

(To Be Continued)

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Sir Charles nodded. “Ce salaud!” hiss. | wants?” | “Money, probably.” { “Trouble,” said Marcel. “Nothing {but trouble ever can come from bm.”

It was spoken in a “What do you suppose he,

” » » | THEY FINISHED setting up the| easel. Marcel considered its posi-| tion, his head cocked. “I have asked! that Sophie wear her red brocade. She will sit in that’ green velvet

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