Jasper County Democrat, Volume 21, Number 85, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 January 1919 — Romance Bah! [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Romance Bah!

By GERALD ST. ETIENNE

(Copyright, 1»18, by McClure Newspapw Syndicate.)

Caroline Kelso could not take her eyes off the man across the table. To her he was a curiosity, and, as he munched away at a piece of toast In one hand and stirred hls cup of coffee furiously with a spoon in the other hand, with hls eyes glued on the newspaper before him, she wondered if he was human. It had been the same every morning since the first morning at that boarding house, two weeks before. The landlady had not thought it necessary to make them acquainted. » Never once had he raised hls eyes nt Caroline’s entrance to the dining room; never once hnd .he offered to pass her anything at the table. She had only seen him eat, stir coffee .'read a paper, Jump from the table and leave the room. She had not heard him speak. He was not even decently polite. He was good-looking and’seemed well bred, too. What a shame for such good qualities to be wasted on* a bore like him, Caroline thought. “Romance —bah !” The words came out of the man’s lips in a disgusted exclamation. ■ Caroline almost called out in fright. He had spoken—the shock was almost too much. But that was all he said. When he turned the paper over she caught sight of what had’’caused the outburst. It was an advertisement Tor a film play called “Romance." As Caroline devoted herself to her grapefruit, she thought it over. This man was a woman-hater, that was apparent. To him there was no romance —he seemed to hate the word. It seemed to her that men like that should not be allowed nt large. All through her breakfast Caroline’s indignation grew. When he got up and went out in the same old way she frowned after

him. She was still frowning when he returned. Another variation Jn his daily program. If there were any more shocks her breakfast would be spoiled, She felt sure. But that was nothing to the next shock. The man sat down in a chair in the corner and groaned. “Are you ill?” she cried, jumping hurriedly to her feet, sympathy overcoming all other feelings. “No,” he said, grimly, “but one of the landlady’s youngsters Is, and we are under quarantine.” “Oh,’* Caroline exclaimed. “What shall we do?” “Stay here for ten days, at the very least. Godd heavens, and all the work that is piling up for me at the office!” “And my work, too!’/ she almost sobbed. “Are you sure we are under quarantine?” Before he could answer the landlady herself appeared and tearfully confirmed the lews. Her youngest child had contracted smallpox and had been removed to an Isolation hospital. It would be qecessary for the household to remain under quarantine until the house had been thoroughly fumigated, and even then they might be held -for ten days until the authorities were sure no more cases would develop. If the quarantine we/e broken the breaker would be put under immediate arrest. There was nothing to it but to make the best of it. The boarding house was situated in the suburbs. Caroling had chosen It to be away from the noise of the city so that she could do some writing at night. There was a large garden, inclosed by a fence,‘'that had always appeared inviting. It was beautiful summer weather, so she could spend her time reading in the hammock under the shade trees. After notifying the city editor of the Evening Mail why she would not be able to report for work for a few days, Caroline sought out the hammock. The woman-hater had arrived there first. She coughed to attract his attention, but was really surprised when he took the hint and offered her the hammock. After all, he did remember some of the laws of sociability. Suddenly Caroline threw aside her book. A terrible thought had come to her. The house was to be fumigated. All papers would probably be destroyed* and there were two manuscripts of stories in her room. She would have to get them out of the way somehow. A spade, standing against the house, gave her an Idea. She hurried to her room and with the manuscripts wrapped, in a newspaper, and

proceeded to bury them. When the work was done she looked up to see the man looking at her. He pretended he £ad not, seen, but she knew he ha<J. With a toss of her head she. went back to the hammock. “Miss Kelso, do you think I have smallpox?” Somehow he had found out her name. Caroline looked up from her book to find him bending oyer her. “Goodness, no! Why?” she cried. He pointed to a spot on hls forehead. Caroline gave a sigh of relief as she looked^more closely at It. '“lt is only a freckle,” she laughed- “You have two or of them-” That started a conversation. It began with freckles and ended with books and flowers. His name was Mr. Latimer, she learned, but by the second day they were calling each other Harry and Caroline. How jphe ever could have thought he was a bore was more than she knew. He was really delightful. When the quarantine was Mfted at the end' of ten days they were genuinely sorry. They both went back to the grind, meeting only at breakfast, but they were different breakfasts after that, and when they caught up with their work they were going to become better friends, they assured each other. One morning the mail brought Caroline a big surprise—a check from the publisher of a magazine. She had not remembered sending any stories to him. The magazine was published in the city, too. What stories had she sent? Then she remembered burying the two in the garden. They were probably destroyed by that tkne. A look at the letter that accompanied them startled her. The check was for those two stories. Then it occurred to her that Harry Latimer had no doubt sent them in and forgotten to erase her name from them and thp publisher had given her Credit' for them. He had stolen them. He who hated romance could hot write romantic stories, so he had taken hers. The wretch I She would call on the editor that very day to learn how he had got them. • When Caroline was ushered into the editorial room of the magazine she gasped. There sat Harry at the desk. He knew why she had come. “Sit down,” he smiled. “Is it about your stories?” "Yes,” she said meekly. “Where did you get them?” “The sandman gave them to me,” he laughed. “I am mighty grateful to him for them, for they are very good.” "They are not,” she said seriously. "They are wretched. You bought them just to please me.” "No, I didn’t. I’m not a bit romantic. Business comes first with me. Your stories are going to prove a buried treasure in more ways than one.” Caroline tried to persuade him that the stories were poor ones, but he would not listen to her. “ . "Won’t you come to dinner with me?” he asked as she was going. “I have something I want to say to you.” “What?” she asked, half dismayed. “Can’t you gu&ss?” he smiled. “But you’re not a hit romantic,” she blushed. “I shall never forget the disgust in your tone one morning when you said: ‘Romance —bah!’ You used to be a terrible bore at breakfast.” "I have been overworked here, but I am going to have an assistant,” he said. "How could you expect me to like romance when I read nothing but romantic manuscripts day in and day out. I hate the very word.” “When the right girl comes alontf you will be as romantic as anyone,” she prophesied. “But yoti are the right girl—the only girl for me,” he blurted. “Life without you will be nothing. You are the girl I have been dreaming about and waiting for for years. My ambitions have all been for you. My hard work has all been for you, and for the little home we should have when I found you. Just think how happy we could be—just you and I in a garden like the one which we were ijj. those ten wonderful days. Please do not let a false idt?a of romance come between us. I loye you—surely ypu will believe me?” Harry had risen and was talking right into Caroline’s eyes. Before she knew It his arm was about her and she did not draw her lips away ns his came closer. “Dear heart,” he said pleadingly, “perhaps I can learn to be romantic." There was a merry twinkle in Caroline’s eyes as she exclaimed: “Romantic ! Well, perhaps!” That seemed to be all the answer Harry needed; her smile made up for words.

He Was Not Even Decently Polite.