Bellefonte, Pa., April 4, 1930.
EEE EE
THE PATH OF LIFE.
There is many a rest on the path of life,
If we would only stop to take it,
And many a tone from the bitter land,
If the querulous heart would make
it,
To the soul that is full of hope,
And whose beautiful trust ne'er
faileth,
The grass is green and the flowers are
bright,
Though the winter storm prevaileth.
Better hope when the clouds hang low,
And to keep the eyes still lifted,
For the sweet blue sky will soon peep
through
When the ominous clouds are drifted,
There ne'er was a night without a day,
Or an evening without a morning.
And the darkest hour, as the proverb
goes,
Is the hour before the dawning.
There is many a gem in the path of
life,
Which we pass in idle pleasure,
That is richer far than the jeweled
crown
Or the miser’s hoard of treasure,
may be the love of a little child,
Or a mother’s prayer to heaven
only a beggar’s grateful thanks
For a cup of water given.
It
Or
Better to weave in the web of life
A bright and golden filling
And to God's will bow with a ready
heart,
And hands that are swift and will-
ing,
Than to snap the delicate innate thread,
Of our curious lives asunder,
And then blame heaven for the
ends,
And sit and grive and wonder.
tangled
eee fee ee.
ABSOLUTELY NO “IT.”
Eyes and ears and nose, hair and
lips and even toes. Such, described
in glamorous detail, was the stuff
heroines were once made of. But
nowadays one word suffices. Either
agirl has “It”—or she hasn't,
And if she hasn't, the best she can
hope for is to achieve a philosophy
of sorts. As Ann Randolph, with
aboslutely no “It,” had achieved her
philosophy; this being, basically,
that life was not going to hand her
anything, even on a pewter plat-
ter, and that what she got from
life she'd have to work for.
In brief, where other girls—
such as Ann's younger sister Marge,
for instance—used their eyes or
dimples to subjugate the male, Ann
used whatever substitute suggested
itself to her as most productive of
results. Even her elbows, if neces-
sary. The way she used them this
night in late December as she work-
ed her way through the crowded
street-car as it neared her stop.
“Pardon!” she suggested to the
bulky specimen of so-called man-
hood who stood blocking her pro-
gress.
Her voice was not the voice of a
siren. It was crisp, efficient. Ann
was crisp, efficient. But it failed to
penetrate as—well, as
murmured coo would have.
brought an elbow into play.
“Whoof!” grunted the target
its thrust.
He glared at her. If
Marge, Marge would have flirted an
would have smiled.
Ann, however, was not Marge. Exactly eighteen months
He did not smile.
“Ann,” was the way her mother | put it had made
put it, “is so sensible. Men just in Ann’s life, even
don’t
sort.”
interest her. She's
To which Ann retorted—but only apout that was, curiously enough.
( Tommy Adams.
to herself: “And that’s what
—— i
py y os 5 . ” 3 | ““ : 29
a "og jant announcement that Marge Samuel Benton was in Washington, “Really?” commented Ann, in a Atlantic City?” he asked in-
oure not as bad as all that,” insouciant announc He would return the following tone that suggested he was being terestedly.
he had assured her. : made at dinner. .
4 was she, as far as eyes and | ‘Oh, he came in for a manicure.
ears and nose, hair and lips and Marge was explaining, as ‘Ann siip-
Marge’s | ness gracious,”
. Yet | answering her
Ann was not without resource. She | that
| thing for household
of {way Ann did.
even toes were concerned. Her eyes
were clear and direct, matching in
tone the not uncolorful brown of
her hair. Her nose was straight,
her lips not so bad. As for her
toes, shod in trim pumps, they must
have been .delectable, for at least
they were the terminals
loveliest legs imaginable.
Even Marge conceded Ann that.
“I wish I had your legs,” she had
assured Ann, more than once,
Nevertheless, it was Marge who
got the men. She wasn’t so amaz-
ingly pretty in some ways and she
was definitely spoilt and selfish.
Yet she got them just the same.
“She just can’t help attracting
men,” was the way her mother
phrased it. Mothers will boast that
way. Especially to mothers of less
fortunate daughters.
“Isn't it strange that Ann is so
different ?” some of the latter would
suggest, sweetly.
But Mrs. Randolph was not to
be squelched.
“Oh, of course, Ann could have
men too if she wanted them,” she
would reply loftily. “But she’s all
for business. And she has such a
very important position—in charge
of the office all the time Mr. Ben-
ton is away, you see. He simply
adores her. Why, he gave her a
hundred dollars for Christmas.
And well Samuel Benton might.
Ann not only attended to the office
routine but picked out presents for
his grandchildren, registered swift if
not always sincere admiration for
his follies in first editions, and saw
to it that he went to the barbers
when he should. At such times she
felt like a mother to him,
The hundred dollars had been a
complete surprise to her. The first
Christmas he had given her a book,
the second two books.
“This year, Ann had thought, “it
will be three books. If we stick
together long enough I may work
up to a Christmas where I'll get a
full set of Dickens or something
like that.”
On the other hand, he might close
his one-man office and retire any
time. Ann knew that, but it was no
use worrying. She would get anoth-
er job presumably, and © she hoped
it would be as good as the one
she now had. She was not so sure
of that, however. Samuel Benton
was a liberal man, as employers
went; he had started her at twen-
ty-five a week when she was twen-
ty two; now, at twenty-five, he
was paying her forty.
This Ann never told anybody at
home. There was a reason. Andrew
Randolph, her father, gray and near-
ing fifty, was a sublimated head
broker who reecived eighteen hun-
dred a year. A pathetic, almost
tragic figure in a way.
“He wouldn't say . a word—but
he'd feel like more of a total loss
than ever if he knew I was getting
more than he is,” Ann thought.
The only thing to do, of course,
was to pretend that thirty dollars a
week could contrive all the miracles
forty can be stretched to. Some
girls are that way, even these days.
Marge worked too, but:
she had protested,
mother's suggestion
she might contribute some-
expenses,
“I've got to have
| clothes and lunches and some spend-
it had been | jng money,
ls 3 ‘ ; {I want to help and the
incorrigible eyelid at him and he; get a decent salary—”
haven't I? Of course
minute I
But then, Marge was younger,
younger
{than Ann. Not so much in time
a big difference
if she never
not that nad realized that.
The first person ever to think
Curiously, because
call a kind and considerate way of at first glance, he was pretty much
putting it. Anybody else
say I'm not the sort that
men.”
Yet it was true that men didn’t
interest her a whole lot. At least
not such men as Marge was forever
bringing home. Marge was all “It.”
"A flame for masculine moths,
Marge. But not Ann.
Ann had her health, a sense of
humor and a darned good job. She
was private secretary to Samuel
Benton, a patent lawyer who
spent half his time in Boston and
the rest in Washington. He had two
sets of grandchildren, a full
and hair in his ears. T
would
interest
“L” he had told Ann testily, when | toward the front door.
she applied for the position, “can’t with her latch-key and she was
secre- ; the hall. :
just taking the’
be forever breaking
taries. If you're
position as a stop-gap until
get married—"
“IL” Ann had broken
in new
in,
good to my mother.”
He had stared at her all but
open-mouthed. “Nice teeth—good to
your mother?” he had echoed un-
certainly.
grin. She had wanted the position
awfully. They'd get along
er, she knew,
Some men made Ann feel
way. They warmed to her
Street-car conductors with six
children, fat old policemen. Such
men, in short, as Pascale, the boot-
black, who .came to the office and
who told her that Tony, his oldest
boy, was winning prizes at Boston
Latin and would go to college and
be a great lawyer some day.
They interested her,
her interest. Oh yes, she ,had felt
she was going to get the job.
“Exactly the sort of girl,” she
had explained coolly to Samuel Ben-
ton, “that any sensible man would
know would make a much better
wife than some fluffy little thing
that coos and makes eyes at him.
But then—a man is never sensible
when he falls in love.”
He had, chuckled at that. He
was over seventy and he looked
like a moth-eaten Jove. In his dim,
incredible past, .as.she was. tolearn,
he had. stroked a college crew; now
his. predominating interest was in
the first editions he collected.
that
. parked ;
! proached home, this night
the sort of youngster that Marge
might be expected to bring home.
A lean, lithe male of twenty-eight
perhaps, with a swift grin and a
perfect peach of a car.
The peach of a car was standing
at the curb as Ann ap-
in late
December when she had used her
elbows to get out of a street-car.
“Marge,” she thought, as she
glimpsed it, “must have a new
man on the string.”
Which was why she didn’t pause
beard | to give the roadster even a second |
of the |
“Good- |
the !
ped _ into her place’ at the table.
“He's something or other to do
| with a big shoe company and he’s
|on for the shoe show that opens
' next week.”
This was addressed to her moth-
‘er. It was Mrs. Randolph and her
younger daughter who provided
much of the table-talk.
Something was forever happening
to Marge, She had started out, as
kad Ann, tobe a stenographer. She
never had been particularly good at
it; when her notes proved obscure
she extemporized and a misspelled
word was nothing in her life. Nev-
ertheless, she had no difficulty in
securing positions.
The trouble was that she never
held them long.
“Oh, he got too darned fresh,”
might be her explanation. Or, “He
certainly thought he was
gift to women—and I told him
where he got off.” ’
Of course an attractive gir
Marge would be persecuted that
way. But even in the beauty shop
to which she had gravitated she had
troubles.
“I hate women!” she had an-
nounced passionately, when that
position had gone the way of all
Marge’s jobs. “Especially women
who think that they own the earth
like
husbands who have money.”
Marge’s mother had not liked
her present job. “But—manicuring
in a barber shop doesn’t seem—
quite nice,” she had protested.
“It’s a swell shop—and so are
: the tips,” Marge had replied serene-
| And of course Marge had her own
way. She always did. And it was,
naturally, in the barber shop that
she had met Tommy Adams.
“I guess he’s a lot older than he
looks,” she went on, at the supper
table, this December night.
was in the war, anyway.”
“Why didn’t you ask him to din-
ner?” suggested mother, moved as
much by curiousity as hospitality.
ht
“Good Lord—in this dump!” ex-
claimed Marge scornfully.
Her father gave her a curious
glance but she never even saw it.
“Besides,” she added, “he only
came to see Ann anyway.”
Ann and her mother both
at her, a bit open-mouthed.
“Or perhaps”—Marge paused and
grinned—*“I should say Ann's legs.”
“Marge!” protested her mother.
“I don’t think that’s nice.”
“Why not?” asked Marge, too in-
nocently. “Ann has got legs—any-
body can see them. And they are
awfully nice. And he said that
Boston girls have the worst legs he
ever saw. And I knew that mine
wouldn't change his opinion and so
I said, “You ought to see my sis-
ter's.”
“Marjorie Randolph—you didn’t!”
gasped Ann. .
“Don’t be mid-Vie!” counseled
Marge, “I've always told you you
have the loveliest legs ever.”
Andrew Randolph gave a snort of
disgust. “Nice table-talk!” he be-
gan, Te??
“And I dared him to bet a pair
lof silk stockings that I couldn’t
| prove it,” Marge went on,
i turbed. “And he took me up an—"
| “Is that the way you talk with
| men who come in to get manicur-
ed?” demanded her mother.
| “Why not? There's something in
a manicure with a man that works
| just the way a shampoo does with a
stared
woman. They both tell you their
i life histories and—"
“But to—to discuss your sister's
| —your sister’s—""The word stuck
iin Mrs. Randolph’s throat.
| “Limbs?” suggested Marge sweet-
ily. “Oh, Mother—he was just tell-
ling what an awful time he was
i having to get manikins to display a
new line of shoes the’s horribly in-
| terested in. And you see legs—I
{mean limbs, Mother dear—are so
| important.” -
“Did you think,” interrupted .Ann
| coldly, “that I'd be interested in be-
| coming a manikin?”
“No, but he did—until he saw
| you,” explained Marge serenely. “He
{knew in a second’ then that he
| might just as well try to get Queen
(Mary. But he was a good sport
| just the same. He admitted I'd won
| my bet and—"
“I should think,” said her mother,
i “you’d be ashamed of yourself.”
Naturally Marge wasn’t. And
| glance. Instead she ran up the steps . when the fruits of the bets she had
i
1
|
1
A moment
in
The
room to the right of the
you hall, known in Ann’s youth as the
parlor, but now less definite and
stood
Marge.
“Well,” she announced, “I thought
you'd never get here!”
This was surprising. But before
won appeared—as they did, prompt-
ily, the next day-—she brought them
| home and exhibited them trium-
i phantly. :
| “The man has taste,”
i contentedly.
she purred
“Not an inch of any-
“have | much more livable in character, was | thing but silk. Even the toes.” She
nice regular teeth and am awfully | lighted and in the doorway
| swiftly slipped out of the stocking
| that * sheathed her right leg and
| drew on one of the new ones.
“Gosh!” she breathed, enchanted.
She held her leg outstretched be-
' Ann could assimilate it, Marge had | fore her. The stockings—the thought
togeth- | and,
|
|
1
|
|
Ann had disciplined an impulse to | seized her.
“Wait a minute,” she commanded
cocking Ann’s hat on at a
different angle, she added, “Why
don’t you learn to wear your hatat
quickly. : the right tilt?”
Ann simply stared her amazement.
“And,” added Marge, “you might
powder your nose now and then.
Hold still, dearest—" She produced
her compact and powdered Ann's
nose.
“Well, for heaven's sake!” ex-
ploded Ann, “What do you think
responded to | —
This Marge ignored. “Now,” ‘she
commanded, “come in and meet the
Prince of Wales.”
Of course it wasn't the Prince of
Wales. It was just Tommy.
“This,” announced Marge to him,
“is my sister. I'm sorry she has
wool -stockings = on—but she's the
sort that would, you know. But—
look for yourself.”
To Ann this was all as unintelli-
gible as Greek.
“How do you do?” said she, very
coldly, to Tommy Adams.
Ann disliked him. Just why
could not have said.
This had nothing to do with the
she
| was Ann’s —might have been made
‘by gathering up fairy cobwebs from
| the grasss
‘them the color of dead leaves in the
| fall.
“They must,” was Marge's reac-
tion, “have cost him plenty.”
“It doesn’t seem to me,” her
mother protested, “that any man
“Unless his intentions
able—or the reverse?” suggested
Marge. “Well, I'll ask him which
the next time I see him.”
“You expect to see him again
then?” asked her mother quickly.
“Well, he’s to be in town and he
may need a manicure,” replied
Marge. And added, cryptically,
“Men do, you know.” .
Evidently she quite expected he
woud. Well, so did Ann. Surely
Tommy Adams would not have paid
his bet so prodigally if his interests
had not been caught. Nothing that
Marge might - have confided about
Tommy Adams’ future activities
would have surprised her.
What did surprise her was Tom-
nmy's appearance at her office the
| next morning. At the
are honor-
God's
just because they happen to have |
“He |
unper-
at dawn and dyeing :
would give a girl stockings unless |
moment i
Tuesday—January third.
“And then,” he had told her
when, at Christmas, he had given
her. the surprising gift of a hundred
dollars, “I want you to go away,
for a week. A real spree—Atlantic
City or something like that.”
Ann had no intention of going
away. For various reasons, mostly
financial. This, however, was yet
to be divulged to him. In the mean-
time there was the office routine to
occupy her. It was not heavy.
Entering, Tommy Adams discov-
ered her with a man on his knees
before her. A swarthy male who,
however romantic his position, was
engaged in commerce none the less.
Nevertheless, Pascale, who plan-
ned to send his son to college on
the proceeds of his daily rounds of
office-buildings with his little shoe-
polishing box, had just paid her a
compliment.
“You have,” he had announced,
almost reverently, “the lovelies’ legs.
No like this”—his expressive hands,
holding the implements of his trade,
widened broadly -—‘or”—his hands
came almost together—‘like this!”
He lifted his brown, dramatic eyes
| to her, smiling at her expansively,
‘ radiating all the swift charm of the
Latin. Ann smiled back—Pascale
was not just a bootblack. He was
an old friend.
| “Isn't it too bad that the rest of
me doesn’t match?” she had sug-
t
gested.
| He had looked up at her, puz-
zles. “The rest of you—doesn’t
{ match?” he had echoed.
| “Ever hear of It?’ she had ask-
ed, amused.
| «It? Sure I go to da movies
too. Great big pictures of girls,
They say girl has ‘It.’ No ‘It’ at
all. Maka da. smile, or make da
. weep. But just the same—"
i had gestured widely, disgustedly.
{ “What do you mean?” Ann _ had
asked.
It was queer what
could tell you. Street car conduc-
tors, policemen—almost anybody
when you got them talking.
| “They all so American,” he had
explained “Not like Italy. In Italy
| people look—alive. In America peo-
ple hide everything. You go into
ian office and see people with dead
faces everywhere. As if they afraid
| to look alive and—” He had paused
a bit lost. Then surprisingly: “You
not-a that way,” he had said. “Your
eyes, your face—alive!”
Ann had stared at him, open-
mouthed. Then: “You're a nice man,
Pascale,” she had said, “but you're
an awful liar. Do you—"
The door opened and Ann glanced
around, still smiling. She thought
it was the postman,
But it wasn't the postman.
was—Tommy Adams!
“I hope Im not being a nui-
sance,” he began directly. “I looked
up your business address in the di-
rectory. I wonder if you could help
me out of a hole.”
Instantly her face settled into the
American mask Pascale had refer-
red to.
that she could possibly model shoes
for him? Or would, if she could?
Before, however, she could answer
Tommy, Pascale with a final flourish
of his polishing cloth had
the tools of his trade in the little
; brass-bound box and, arising, was
| favoring her with one of his prodi-
gal smiles. She must, of course,
warm to him, glow swiftly if un-
consciously before turning back to
Tommy.
“People interest you a lot, don’t
they?” he remarked surprisingly, as
the door closed behind Pascale.
“Some people,” amended Ann.
He grinned, unexpectedly, charm-
ingly.
tle,” he remarked. And went
quickly with, “I don’t know wheth-
er your sister told you that I was
on for the shoes show next week
and looking for a manikin.”
He
some people
It
cants,” he assured her. He paused
a second. Then, “Is there a chance
in the world I could persuade you to
ly for three days, next week.”
“Me—model shoes?” gasped Ann,
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Well, one of us is crazy,” re-
plied Ann, “and it must be you,
because I'd be a perfect flop at that
sort of thing. Marge would love it,
but—"
“I can get fifty persons of Marge'’s
type,” he informed her. “It's you
who are precisely the type I want—"’
“And when,” she demanded, “did
swift flash of intution—*“certainly
didn’t think so the other night, did
you?”
. “No,” he confessed candidly. “And
mind somehow. And I had an idea
that if—" He hesitated there as if
not quite sure of his ground.
“Oh, I understand,” Ann assured
him coolly. “An idea that I was like
one of those girls you read about.
Girls who don’t know how to make
i the most of their good points. Then
somebody comes along and changes
their way of doing their hair or
something like that and they dis-
{cover that they are really pretty
{and begin to radiate charm and ev-
erything. That was your idea, wasn’t
it?”
“Something like that,” he con-
fessed as coolly. “But not just—"
“Well, it wouldn't work,” she as-
sured him definitely. And added
| flippantly, “It’s not a matter of
clothes at all. Either you have ‘It’
—or you haven't, and—"
They were interrupted there. The
postman came in, depositing a sheaf
of letters on Ann's desk. Tommy,
{eyes intent, watched the
| between them.
“Have you any
“It
the postman withdrew.
‘ “Have you?” she retorted,
idea just what
need is not new clothes—or a dif-
ferent way of doing ‘your hair—
but a proper perspective on -your-
self.”
very amusing but not at all con-| She almost let him think that.
vincing. “Well, how does it happen Then, feeling herself flush absurdly,
that Marge has the proper perspec- she confessed: If he had looked in-
‘Did he—could he—believe |
replaced !
“I wonder if I could—a lit-!
on ,
“I should think,” commented Ann
aloofly, “you’d have no trouble find-
ing one!”
“Oh, there are plenty of appli- :
help me out?” he plunged. “It’s on-
you decide that? You”—she had a‘
yet I couldn't get you out of my
byplay
| stretoned hand—to say nothing
| At first she hesitated about
“I have a hunch that what - you |ing her employer.
jo course, assumed that she intend-
: gested.
tive and I haven't?”
“That,” said he, “is easy. She's
the younger. You both grew up to-
gether but she developed in one
way, you in another. She diverted
attention from you while you were
still a baby; got the idea the world
revolved around her and that she
could have anything she wanted.”
“Nonsense,” interrupted Ann. “It's
just that she is naturally more
charming.”
“That,” replied Tommy Adams
coolly, “is a matter of taste.”
(To be Concluded next week.)
No woman who ever lived could
take offense at that. But Ann
chose to disbelieve him. Did he think
she was silly enough to let herself
be flattered into becoming a mani-
kin?
But he was going on: “Your sis-
ter is a supreme little egotist. Life
has made her so. I'm not criticizing
egotism is not a bad thing. She
knows she’s pretty, she expects at-
tention and—she gets it. She'll
meet a man half-way —at least—
while you—"
“While 1?”
hesitated.
“While you,” he plunged deliber-
ately, “are so darned afraid that
any man will think you're chasing
him that you freeze up. You
wouldn’t lift a finger to attract his
attention.”
“I wouldn’t—not any man that
ever lived!” blazed Ann.
“And,” he commented imperturb-
ably, “you ask me what ‘It’ is.
Isn't it merely to make yourself at-
gibed Ann, as he
tractive—naturally if you can, prov-
ocatively if you must? Your
sister
does—but you just won't.”
“Never!” Ann assured him em-
phatically.
“Except,” he grinned, “to Italian
bootblacks and gray-headed letter
carriers. They find you attractive
enough and like you.”
“Oh, they're old and married,”
explained Ann. “They like me be-
cause I'm interested in them and
their problems.”
“I know what they like you for,”
he informed her. “I—have eyes.
You know your interest won't be
misconstrued and so you let your-
self be natural and—darned attrac-
tive.” His eyes sought hers and his
nice grin flashed again. “I'm not
; 01d,” he told her, “but 1 am mar-
ried and Lord knows I have prob- |
lems. If I could persuade you to
take the same interest in them—"
{ A curious thing happened then.
Ann had never dreamed, somehow,
that he might be married. She
; certainly had no idea of his mar-
rying her. And yet she felt—well,
suddenly and subtly defrauded,
| “Won't you?” he pleaded beguil-
ingly.
| Ann wavered. ‘“I—don’t see what
+I could do.”
| “Could you possibly get three
days off next week?” he asked
eagerly.
. Ann hesitated. He was nice. And
| married too. As he had said, that
| made a difference. He couldn’t
' misconstrue her interest and—she
'was interested.
i “I could get the days off,” shead-
mitted, “but—oh, if it’s a question
‘of being a manikin, I simply couldn't.
I'm not the type.”
i “I don’t want the ordinary type,”
he persisted. “The styles I'm show-
ing are new and, I hope, both dis-
| tinctive and a bit revolutionary. I
‘want the same type of manikin.”
{ “I'd be revolutionary enough, any-
way.”
| “And that’s the point,” he pressed
jon. “I couldn't get you out of my
-mind—and neither could the buyers.
: You'd stand out.”
! “I,” Ann maintained.
| carried out, you mean. There would
be lots of people there, and Id
“simply shrivel up and die.”
Nevertheless, she was weakening
in spite of herself. He saw that.
“Let me tell you a bit more,” he
begged. “I'm well, I'm running a
shoe factory on a shoe-string. It's
.an old established concern that has
been going behind for years. - A
town syndicate has been carrying it
{along and there was talk of closing
it down. That's where I
in.” He paused, produced a catalog
'and showed it to her. “Specially
. stuff,” he explained. “I sold the idea
to the syndicate, now I've got to
| sell it to the world at large. And
| —it’s neck or nothing.”
{ Already he had caught her inter-
.est. A clever young man, Tommy
Adams. For: i
| “It's not my own neck that’s
! worrying me,” he assured her. “1
shan’t sink without a trace even if
the thing does prove a flop. But—
1do you realize what it means to
others. What a shoe factory isto
a town?”
Ann didn't exactly. But he made
her see it. Not as an ugly pile of
| brick and mortar, equipped with
machinery and smelling of leather.
But as the heart of a little town.
| “We employ a hundred and fifty
men and women in good times,” he
enlarged. “Some old, some young.
Some married, some thinking of
getting married. Each with his or
“her separate existence and problems
—automobiles and babies, radios and
homes. It's —rather a pretty little
town. And if it goes as I hope—
iand this show will be a test—it
' means more automobiles and babies,
. more radios and homes. That's why
‘I'm so darned crazy to put it
across.” He paused, eyed her ex-
pectantly.
| “If—if I could help I—I would,”
she said.
“If you will, you can,” he told her
{ positively. He held out his hand.
{ “Won't you-—shake on it?”
Ann still hesitated. But his out-
of
' something in his eyes—was compel-
is?” he broke in abruptly as | ling. So she let him have her hand |
-—impulsively.
Pp tell-
When she said
she was taking three days off he,
ed-taking the ‘vacation he had sug-
“would be
stepped |
' credulous! Or laughed at her!
| But he didn’t. He merely chuckled
.—which, of course, was quite differ-
ent. “Youll be the hit of the
show,” he prophesied.
| The surprising thing was that he
‘actually thought so. But then he,
like other men, always had seemed
,to hold a higher opinion of her
,than—well, than she did of herself.
“It’s because I'm sort of an old-
| f98njoned girl, I suppose,’ she decid-
ed.
Yet that certainly, could not be
Tommy Adams’ impression of her.
Aside from such attributes asa suc-
cessful young manufacturer of spe-
cialty shoes should possess, Tommy
was, obviously, well informed as to
what the modern girl wears.
“You'll need,” he told Ann,
“some sort of ensemble, an evening
dress, of course, and something that
suggests sport and Palm Beach
too. And hats and stockings to
match each costume.
And pete,” Ann demanded,
aghast, “do you expect me to
them ?” y R get
He grinned at her. “I'm just
thinking out loud—I expect to pro-
vide them, of course.”
“Good gracious!” Ann protested.
“If you are running a shoe factory
on a shoe-string, as you say, I
don't see—"
“It’s all charged upto advertising
he informed her serenly. “And
this is no time to pinch pennies.”
Nor did he. He not only took
| Ann’s breath away, he even took
.Marge’s. As for Mrs. Randolph,
she had been breathless from the
| start.
| Of course there had been no
keeping it from the family. If she
yhad tried to, the first evidence of
; Tommy Adams’ prodigality when it
came to advertising would have giv-
en her away. This was the arrival,
|not of a single pair of stockings,
but a dozen pairs!
{ And that was only the first bomb
‘to explode in Mrs. Randolph's pres-
(ence. The next package to arrive
, contained accessories even more in-
| timate. Ann wished she had open-
!ed that package in her room.
{ “Say,” demanded Marge, ‘what
| does he think he’s doing? Furnish-
ing your hope chest?”
Ann hastily placed the silky,
slinky frivolities back in their
wrappings.
“I don’t wonder you blush,” add-
‘ed Marge mercilessly. “A girl is
i certainly stepping out when she
| gets step-ins. That—"
“I don't,” exploded her mother,
{ “see any necessity of his sending
| things like that. I—I don’t think
it’s nice,”
“Oh, he just knew Ann was the
| sort who didn't wear them,” con-
. tributed Marge. “And of course in
demonstrating shoes you demon-
| strate so much else, too!”
| “He's one of the nicest men I
Sver meh flamed Ann, goaded to
iit. “And he’s married—very happily
! married.” Vimy
| “And isn’t that
| gested Marge.
| “And it's all strictly business,”
{ Ann persisted, “He's as impersonal
; as!
§
!
too bad!” sug-
“As any other married man is at
{the start,” Marge put in helpfully.
| ‘Well, he'll tell you that his wife
| doesn’t understand him yet.”
{ This Ann ignored. Tommy Adams
| wasn’t the least bit like that. He
| was delightfully casual and he was
| terribly in love with his wife. If
i she had doubted that, a letter he
let her read would have proved it.
| He let her read the letter because
, at the very moment she had stage
fright.
This was on Wednesday, January
i the fourth, The show was beginning.
The fourth, the fifth and the sixth
| floors of the hotel were given over
to ~ the display of sample shoes.
| They—Ann and Tommy— were ina
{room on the fourth floor where his
, products —the shoes Ann was to
| model—were displayed. Footgear
; that, coming from a little New Eng-
{land village, was fit for a queen.
; Slippers such as Cinderalla might
| have worn. -. . :
Ann felt absurdly like Cinderella
herself. Because downstairs in the
main ballroom was a runway. And
ta million people, more or less, wait-
| ing to see her walk down that run-
| way. Well, she couldn’'t—just
. Souldn't! : :
{ *“I—told you I'd be a flop,” she
{ reminded him, almost tearfully.
| She was all dressed up and the
place she was to go was plainly
i designated. But all she wanted to
,do was to find a hole to crawl into!
Or to bury her nose in a masculine
| shoulder and weep. Yes—Tommy
| Adams’ shoulder. Married or not,
i she felt that way.
And married or not, Tommy
Adams darn near gave her the
chance to. But that she did not
. guess. Because instead he abruptly
(drew a letter from his pocket.
“Read the first page of that,” he
suggested.
{ The first page was in the swift
| firm writing that looked so like him.
It ran:
Dearest:
This will be only a short letter
today to tell you how much I love
you and miss you and how I wish
you could be here. I hope you
; are taking every precaution—this
is bad weather for colds, you
! know—and that Doctor Crossman
| will sit on your chest if neces-
| sary to keep you in bed.
! Don’t worry about me. It's
going to mean big things for us.
I've got exactly the girl I want,
{ you know. She hasn't the slight-
est idea how charming she is and
she’s not the type that would do
this normally. And that’s just
the reason she's going to strike
precisely the note I want. She'll
make the others look like rhine-
stones.
As you can't be here I'm going
to describe her abit. I persuaded
her yesterday to go to the: best
(Continued on page 7, Col. 1.)