Evening Star Newspaper, June 25, 1922, Page 62

6 E was already regarded in England the most bril- liant young actor of the times. Furthermore, he had . besn a pet of London society. So that when a very fashionable woman gave a dinner for him In New York . he took It for granted that, out of deference to himself, his nelghbors . would be people of consequence. As a matter of fact, the lady on his left proved to be Mrs. Maurice Kennard, | whose husband was perhaps the greatest and certainly the most re- spected figure on the American stage. _ In spite of his colossal egotism, the Foung Briton would havs been atten- tive to her because of the man she had married, but beyond that she had . about her an air if impregnable sin- ;. cerity, a sweetness of character, a subtle hint of girlishness, which caught his tmagination. As the dinner advanced he noticed that at Intervals she kept glancing across the table at her husband—not in the manner of a sentry, but as though her own pleasure and com- fort of mind depended on Kennard's. Ho also noted that if Kennard met , her eyes his whole face brightened. Obviously, they were very much in love with each other. The Englishman sald to her: “You were never in the profession yourself, were you, Mrs. Kennard?" | She regarded him with some amuse- ment. “How can you tell that?" “Why,” he said, “I don't quite know, but T can tell instinctively.” “Do you mean I'm not the type?” “Oh, it isn't a question of type. I ean tell simply by looking at you _ and talking to you that you—" he hesitated—"belong to the other class.” * She laughed. “The other- class of what? Of women? And are there only two?" He nodded. “Only two—actresses and women who believe they could have been. Oh, you needn’t ralse your eyebrows! T never met a woman who dldn’t be- lteve or hasn't believed that she could have made a hit on the stage. Did you?” “Why:- she hesitated. “Of course you haven't!” he sald - firmly. “Every woman has the same idea at one time or another. The only difterence is how soon they get over it or If they ever get over it at all Now, just between ourselves, Mrs. - Kennard, when did you get over it? Or, in strict confidence, have you quite got over it yet?" * * %k % _"A T this juncture he was interrupted by his hostess, and Mrs. Maurice Kennard, glancing across the table, - had twenty seconds to think of an " answer. For four successive generations the . house of Kennard had produced only : doctors and gentlemen, and &s soon as Maurice could talk he was told . that he was to follow these traditions. On the day that he graduated from college, however, he electrifled his father by the announcement that medicine was distasteful to him and that he much preferred to go on the stage. . At the outset his father had spoken hotly of treason to the family ideals, and after that he had made the com- mon mistake of fathers in such a crisis and rested his case on per- ,.sonal ridicule. “That may all be’” sald Maurice with high dignity, “but you say T'll be a rotten actor, and I say I'd have been & rotten doctor.. So you'll have to grant—" . But his father would grant noth- ing. The session closed with an ul- timatum. Kennard listened to it re- spectfully, shook hands, and on Sat- -urday week was richer by thirty dol- "“lars, his salary from a Boston stock company, and poorer by the loss of ““his Inheritance. * Naturally, in his initial season he wasn't even 2 “bit" actor. He played the unimportant butler, the unimpor- tant policeman and the equally unim- -_portant person from next door, the type of character known in stage vernacular as “George Friendwell'” . who stands about and listens while ought to be doing a straight lead.” Kennard put his arm around her. “But they can't hold us back for- ever. And all this Is valuable ex- perience, anyway." “Yes,” she sald slowly. “Only sometimes I wish we were getting it in some other company.” Their eyes met, and he knew that she was thinking about Hartney, the actor-manager. Hartney was the very pattern of what an actor ought not to be and no gentleman.really is. He had made himself peculiarly offensive to Violet. and doubly objectionable to Kennard. Added to this, he was the man who had blocked their progress. To do him justice, it was because fie had put them down as waste material “Yes,” sald Kennard reflectively, ‘'sooner or later I'm going to have to punch that man in the jaw.” She held tightly to him. “I can stand it—I can stand any- thing—as long as you're here. Prom- ise me. you'll. Keep your temper— please promise!” He promised faithfully -to keep fit, but on the very morrow he broke his pledge. * X% % somebody else explains the plot to him. At the end of the season he signed a contrast for summer stock in Penn- . sylvania. By this time he had earned ..the right to do occasfonal “bits,” mainly in character comedy. He was . playing six evening performances and three matinees a week ané rehearsing every morning except Thursday. Even %0, he found spare moments to read Shakespeare, to analyze Clyde Fitch, and presently, during his third year "“ on the boards, to fall in love. Her name was Violet Dunn, an in- genuous little girl, who also had “bits” and lofty ambitions. And from the very first she belleved implicitly in Maurice Kennard. She told him, * “with depths in her eyes, that he would five to be famous, and a fortnight “ fater, when he watched her as Jessica i 4n “The Merchant of Venice,” he ~promised her that in less than ten « years she would see her name, incan- descent, on Broadway. ? * % % % mid-August Kennard’s father died, 1 Jeaving half = million dollars to " charity and & gold eigle to his only son. Whereupon the son said to Vio- let soberly: - THEY ‘were rehearsing “SecregaServ- ice,” and Hartney had badgered the pair alternately, until Violet, with tears in her eyes, had fled into the wings to hide her wrath and chagrin. Kennard was struggling for control of himself -when Hartney addressed him .with his usual pompous inso- lence. : - nnard,” he.sald, “you've got to get over this high-brow attitude of yours. Oh, we all know you'ré a col- lege man. You've . advertised. It enough! But you've got to learn to read your lines the way I do. Lose yourself in the part! Forget.it's a play and let yourself go.” Kennard, who had been staring-un- certainly after Violet, bit his lip. “But, Mr. Hartney, if an . actor really did forget himself how could he help forgétting the audience, too, and turning’ his® back ‘on it? " How could he help blending-a lot of his speeches and not giving other people their cues? How could- he'lose him- self without losing °his audience, too?” - : ‘The manager raised his hand. “Now then, ladies ‘and’ gentlemen, lwnh your Kind pérmission, we'll have a lecture on thé art’of acting. by one of the scintillating’ lights of the pro- “I have got to work twice as hard | feesion. Pray. go- on, Mr. Kennard— now as I would if he’d lived. You |y ore an1 7 ges, what hurt me most was the way ** he talked—not about me, but about ¢ the stage.” your pupiis!” Kennard flushed. “I've heard plenty .of actors talk about forgetting themaselves, . Mr. “T know,” she sald. “While he was | goreney, but I nevér yet saw one of alive you just wanted to prove that| pem forget where the middle of the he was wrong, but now you've got to | a4 {s, or the limelight, either.” prove that you.were right.” Hartney glared at him. - He told her that she had hit 1t| .very smart: very smart, indeed. accurately. Get on with the scene. Whete's you “T'Il get there ¥ he declared. | i¢11q friend? ks ko “And then you won't have to act Un-| y; was the tone more than' the less you want to."” | words which brought.Kennard.:to the “What makes you suppose I won't|jymi¢ of his endurance. . He. deliber- always want to?* she asked, Der-|giqly knocked the man down. * plexedly. . ‘The actor-manager..got_up slowly “Simply because you're & WOman |,ng pylled himself together. He sur- L first and an actress afterward. Look |,,yeq Kermard and spared a cynical 3. at all the stage marriages you can|giance for Violet, who had ‘hurried * think of, and how long do they last— |pocy t5 the stage. e happily, I mean—when both people| wpotn of you can wash' up—for are stars? good—tomorrow night!” he sald. “TIl “Let's try to save enough money to | },ve your places filled by that time.” .. Bu-married, anyway.” she suggested.| Now, because the'girl ‘was in love “And after that we'll decide whether | thought only-of the separation we're goIng to be starg and bicker Of | ypiop was now Inevitable, she ac- Sust second-rate and Dolite to each | ,yeq Kennard of bresking his prom- ! other.” 186 to her, and :they quatreled. -In.the They were radiantly happy When |.oursq of the quarrel they both made they learned that for another seasom,|ygrigug statements which they. didn't at least, they could”be together—|p,un and before they had .a fair again in stock. But even their happi- | chance to forgive each other they had ! ness couldn’t prevent them from -be- . . "oty san ~ coming vagu2ly discoursged after a few more months of earnest effort by thelr failure of advancement. A : “It isn’t your fault,” said Eennard “It's because you've never | Kemnard wis. " bring you out.” however, had bexter him:'to’ thecity, . “And it isn't your r “ insisted. “They keep on making you|Three mpnths west' by 'béfsre 'he * € ‘George Friendwell’ when you|could get an engagement,"and when fault, efther,” she | and it had ‘arrivet in’ ons-stded form: | g THE SUNDAY" STAR, ‘WASHINGTON, —— e e —————— WHY VIOLET 'KENNARD LEFT THESTAGE——Ambmon Real Love, Self-Sacrifice—-By Holworthy Hall i g s 317 2y ; @ i) e w c. “D: 9 y - TEMPTED TO STALK INTO THE PROPRIETOR’S OFFICE AND RESIGN. at last he put his pen to a contract he had committed himself to a solid year on the Pacific coast. Mysteriously, even to themselves. their quarrel widened by correspon- dence. They were still deeply In love, but pride was operating as an emergency brake. Their letters be- came more impersonal and less and less frequent. It was five years be- fore they saw each other again. And in the meantime Kennard, disheartened and convinced that his father had been wise, had ceased to be an actor. He was a university man, a natural student, and he loved his own pro- fession well as his father had ever loved medicine, but for all his study and practice he seemed predestined to go on playing “George Friendwell” and nothing else. Then one of the smaller theatrical firms offered him a trial as a director, and because of his vision and self-training he became a very good director indeed. In fact, he was so good that when he was hardly thirty he was hired by one of the best producing managers on Broadway. When he was given the script of his first play the producer explalned the cast to him. “For tHe lead we!ve engaged Her- bert Hartney. I heard you two fel: lows had some kind of & row onc: but I guess you can get along all right, can’t you?" * *x x % ENNARD was thinking back over, the past five years—those years in which Hartney, a well known ac- tor, with friends on the Riaito, had spread the word that Kennard was unreliable, insubordinate, incompe- tent. Hartney had prejudiced man- agers against him. It was Hartney, more than all other influences com- bined, who had forced him -to say good-bye to his great ambitions. “Oh, yes,” he said, “we'll get along all right. “Who did you say plays opposite?’ “It's a girl my brother found out on the pitcher-and-bowl circuit. He says she’s a holy wonder. Her name is—let's see—Violet Dunn.” When Kennard got her address and went to congratulate her he found her sweeter even than he had remem- THE FOUNDLING nd all he saw of her was the fronical legend, “Cure Your Corns.” At the hotel he found the bench outside occupied chiefly by Jean. One of the little girls in pigtails was hold- ing him, while Miss Anne adminis- tered the feeding bottle. Provincial France is the happeist country in the world—in that you can live your in- timate, domestic life in public, and no- body - heeds. “I hope you've not come to tell Jean to boot and saddle,” said Miss Anne, a smile on her roughly hewn, comely face. “Alas!” said Aristide, cheered by the charming spectacle before him. “I don't know when we can get away. My auto has broken down hopelessly. I ought to go at once to my firm in Marseille’—he spoke as if he were a partner_ in the Maison Hieropath— “but dom’t quite know what to do with Jean.” ] “Oh, I'll look after Jean,” “But you sald you wers leaving for Avingnon today.” She laughed, holding the feeding. bottle. “The.palace of the popes has been’ standing for six centuries, and it will_be standing tomorrow; where- as Jean—" Here Jean, for some. reason known to himself,.grinned. “Isn’t he the most fascinating thing of the twentleth century?’ she cried, logically incon- sequental. “You go to Marseille, M. Pujol.” D * % % X SO ‘Aristide took the train to Mar- seille—a half-hour’s journey. In a quarfer of the cit resembling a fusion of Jarrow, an unfashionable part of St. Louls, and a brimstone-’ manufacturing suburb of Gehenna, he ‘interviewed the high: authorities of the Maison Hieropath. His cajolery could lead men into diverse lunacies, but it could not induce the hard- bitten manufacturer of quack rem- edies to provide a brand-new automo- bile for his'personal convenience. The old auto had broken down. The nu- ‘facturer shrugged his shoulders. The mystery was that it had lasted as long. as it did. He had, expected it to explode the first day. The idea. had originally been that of the junior partner, a scatter-braimed ’youth whom at times they humored. Mean- while, there being no beplacarded and Dbefiagged automobile, there could be | “Gaca sata Atistide, when' ‘he resched -the “evil- thoroughtare. - “It| 'was “a “degraded oeccppation, and T #m' glad T am out of it. . Meadnwhile, no_advertisement. ‘Therefore they! | had no further use for M.- Pujol's here -is” Marsellle before me, snd it|up to hisroom. . _ | will be astonishing if I do not find some fresh road to fortune before the day is out.” Aristide tramped and.tramped all day through the streets of Marsellle, but the road he. sought. he did not find. He returned to Aix in dire per- plexity. He was used to finding him- self suddenly cut off from the means of livelthood. It was his chronic state of- being. His gay resource- fulness - had adways carried him through. But then there had been only himself to think of. Now. there was Jean. For the first time in many. years . the dragon-fly's wings grew limp. Jean—what could he do with Jean? 3 EE JEAN had already gone to .sleep when he arrived. -All day he had been as good as goid, so Miss Anne declared. ' For hérself; she had spent the happiest day of her life. “I don’t wonder at your being- & voted to him, M. Pujol,” she said. “He has- the ‘most - loving - ways - of ‘any baby-I ever met." > - “Yes, sile,” replied Ari tide, with an unaccustomed huskine: in his volce, “I am devoted to. him. It may seem odd for a man ‘to be wrapped up in'a baby of nine months old—but—it's like that.- It's true. Je l'adore re tout mon caeur, de tout mon etre,” he cried, in & sudden gust of passion. c Miss Anne smiled kindly, not dream- ing of his perplexity, amused by his southern warmth. Miss Janet joined them in the hall. They went In to din- ner, Aristide sitting at the central table d'hote, the ladies at a little table by themselves. After dinner they met again outside the hotel, and drank coffee and talked the evening away. He was not as brigat & companion as on the night before. His gulety was forced. 'Hp talked ' about ' everything. else in ‘the world but Jean. The temptation to pour’ his financial troubles into the sympa- thetic ears'of these two dear women he resisted. ' Théy regarded him 'as on's social’ equality, 28 & man of risins en- gaged 'in some sort. of:business at Mar- seilies; they had Invited him ‘to ‘bring Jean to ‘ses’ thern' at ‘Chislehurst wheh'| he should happen-to be in ‘England sgain. “Pride forbade * hinr ‘to confess himself a homeless, penniless vagaborid. Thé exquisits tharm ‘of” their frank in- timacy would be broked. " Besides,” sough | #ain_ began .to_ fall. bock , it "a "cafe | brought.-him nelther. comtort nor. ‘in- | a . R Bt ‘what bered her. But she received him as | an old friend rather than as a quon- dam lover. = “I told you you'd come to New York,” he sald. “I told you it was nothing but a question of working under the right director. You must have found him.” She npdded. “Yes, I dld. I'm sorry you did not have better luck, Maurice.”" _“Luck had nothing to do with it.” “Oh, yes, it did. They never gave you a good part. Why, If you'd ever had a part like Hartney's in this very plece we're going to do— He shrugged his shoulders. “‘How will you get along with BMr. Hartney?" she asked quickly. “Life's too short to rake all that up again. I'm hired to put this play on; he's hired to act in it. The point is, how will you get along with him yourself?” She smiled faintly. “It doesn’t take many years to learn that if you want to get ahead you've got to forget & good many things. Of course, if you're a star you can dic- tate, but—" VWEAT could be done? Neither the sleeping babe mnor himself could offer any suggestion. One thing was grimly -inevitable. He and Jean must part. To carry him about like an in- fant prince in an automobile had, after all, been 2 simple matter; to drag him through heaven knew what hardships in his makeshift existence was impossible. In his childlike, impulsive fashion he had not though of the future when he adopted Jean. Aristide always regarded the fortune of the moment as If it would last forever. Past deceptions never affected his incurable optimism. Now Jean and he must part. Aristide felt that the end of the world had come. His pacing to and fro awoke the child, who ‘demanded, in his own way, the soothing rocking of his father's arma There he bubbled and “goo'd” till Aris- tide’s heart nearly broke. “What can I'do with you, mon petit Jean?" The Enfants Trouves, after all? He thought of it with a shudder. . The child asleep again, he laid it on its bed, and then sat far into the night thinking barrefly. At last one of his sudden gleams of inspiration flluminated his mind. It was the only way. He took out his watch. It was 4 o'clock. What ‘had to be done must be done swiftly. In the traveling basket, which had been sent from the garage, he placed = pillow, and on to the pillow he transferred witl breathless care the sleeping Jean, and wrapped him up snug and warm in bedclothes. Then he folded the tiny day garments that lay on & chalr, collected the little odds and ends belonging to the child, took from his valise the rest of Jean's 1ittle wardrobe, and lald them at the foot of the basket. The most misera~ ble: man in France then counted up his money, divided it into two parts, and-wrote a kusty letter, which, with the bundle’ of notes, he inclosed in an envelope. oy “My little Jean,” sald hs, laying the envelope on the child’s breast. ‘Here is a little more than half my fortune. Halfis for yourself and the little ‘more to pay your wretohed father’s hotel biil. Good-bye, mylittle Jean. t'aime bien, tu sais—and don’t re- Proach e -’ bout an hour afterward Miss Anne awoke and-listened; and in & moment or two Miss Janet-awoke also. “Janet, do you hear that?” 3 erying. Its just out- A NNE _-switched: on. the 1light.and ‘went to see for herself; and there, B e o 25, 1999 PART 4. ¢ D / HE HIMSELF HAD BEEN AN ACTOR, AND YET THESE ROMANTIC SITCATIONS WERE FAR TOO REAL FOR HIM—AND HIS DUTY WAS TO INCREASE THE REALITY. HE WAS “I take it that If you were a star you wouldn't play in the same com- pany with him?* “Can you blame me? And thenm, again, can you blame me for not throwing away my one chance?" When he went away he was more in love than ever, but he told himself that Violet had forgotten. And at that same moment Violet's lips were trembling, and the half decade of separation bad telescoped into a sin- le yesterday. At the first rehearsal Hartney came forward with the utmost nonchalance. “Hello, my boy! Glad to see you! Great play we'vé got, insn't it? A little teamwork and it's sure fire. And I don’t suppose I need to tell you—do 1?—that my whole dramatic experlence, and incidentaily it began when you were wearing short pants, I put cheerfully at your dlsposal.” * % ¥ ¥ THE play was a romantic drama—a serious one—in which Violet and Hartney carried the bulk of respon- sibility. The larger part of Ken- nard’s duty, then, was to Interpret (Concluded) in the tiny anteroom that separated the bedroom from the corridor, shenard icily. found the basket—a new Pharoah's daughter before a new little Moses in the bulrushes. In bewilderment she brought tte ark into the room, and read the letter addressed to Janet and herself. She burst into tears. All she sald wad “Oh, Janet, why couldn't he have told us?” And then she fell to hugging the child to her bosom. Meanwhile Aristide Pujol, clad in his goatskin cap and coat, valise in hand, was plodding tPrough the rain in search of the elusive phantom, fortune; gloriously certain that he had assured Jean's future, yet with such a heartache as he had never had in his life before. (Copyright. All rights reserved.) \ Wealth in Peat. “HE more or less successtul instal- lations in northwest Germany for the utilization of the immense peat bogs that exist there has led to the suggestion in England that the huge bog of Allen in Ireland may next be- the scenes between them and to cre- | ate around them an atmosphere of idyllic sentiment. Even before that first rehearsal he had known that his task would put | a heavy strain upon him, but it wasn't until he had seen Violet and Hartney together that he realized the full ex- tent of it. He himself had been an| actor, and yet these romantic situa- tions were far too real to him, and his duty was to Increase the reality. He was tempted to stalk into the producer’s office and resign. Yet he had always sald that Violet, with the proper direction, would be a star, and now, as her director, he could help her toward the triumph. Determin- edly he put himself and his own re- actions out of the problem. He tried to think of Hartney as nothing more than a flesh and blood puppet. His whole consclousness was concentrated on Violet's success. It was a staggering blow to hm, then, when he peragived that unless something happened to transform her she was certain to be colorless in the part. Her performance was uneven, mechanical. There was no light iand shade in it, and, to cap the climax, she showed to the worst advantage In the best scenes. “Violet,” he demanded, “what's the matter? What's holding you back | now?" She shook her head. “I don’t know."” 1Is it playing opposite Hartney 1 never even think about him! it my fault?” “Oh, no.” - “Well, what on earth s t, then? You can’t seem to let yourself go.” She smiled feebly. “Wasn't that what you and Hart- ney had a fight about once?” 0! Hartpey was talking about forgetting yourself. I'm talking about remembering yourself and call- ing up the right emotions at the right time. You've got the emotions, haven’t you?” She drew a long breath. “I don’t know."” i “You did have—five years ago.” “Even if I did, they seem to be gone now, don't they?’ * x % % I read = double meaning Into the question and took a few seconds to compose himself. Presently he went on in a slightly lower key: “Gone so far that you can’t even play your biggest scene—a scene that would make any actress’ reputation overnight. * * * A girl in love, ideal- izing the man she's in love with, making a demigod of him—and all at once the whole thing breaks and she's In- sulted, broken-hearted, hysterical, disillusioned, furious!” “I just don't feel it, know I'm no good. know why.” He moistened his lips. “The devil of it Is that I've got a responsibility to the man who's pay- ing me.” He heard the quick intake of her breath. “You—you think they—they ought to let me go and find somebody else?” “I don’t want to tumble your dream around your ears like that” he said huskily. “I'm going to see that you g0 on for one appearance. I can't promise you more.” And he walked swiftly away from her at the very moment when her spirit was coming back to her eyes. His employer said to him: “How's the little Dunn girl coming along? I hear she ain't up to the ad- vertising.” “She'll do,” sald Kennard. “She'll do as far as the tryout, anyway.” The company went down to Atlantic City for the tryout. They were to open on Wednesda night, and on Tuesday they had the dress rehearsal. In the wings Hartney took Ken- dard by the arm. “Well, my boy, I offered you the benefit of a lifelong experience, and you didn’t choose to take it—but this she said. “I e al i & is going to be a sad performance to- | morrow night. Sad's the word. The | little girl's miscast.” “She'll rise to the occasion,” said Kennard. “Rise? You'd have to blow her up with dynamite.” “Thanks—very much,” sald Ken- | He moved away and went out to sit in front and watch the rehearsal. When it was over he was stili think- ing of what Hartney had said. He knew, with positive knowledge, that Violet had it in her to be mag- nificent. He was flogging his brain to imagine what could have dried up her ability and what would revive it. And presently he came to a dead standstill, drew a deep breath, hunted up Violet, and spoke to her in an undertone. “Stay in your room until I come,” he said. * % * X HEN he knocked on the door he had made sure that the rest of the company had left the theater. He wént In, closed the door behind him and stood gazing at Violet, who sat listlessly before the mirror. “Violet,” he said, “look at me.” She obeyed tardily, but when she given you—my whole heart—my whole thought—and all I've dreamed about you—and the pedestal 1 put you on——" She was shaking uncon- trollably. “I want you to go, Mau- rice. Do you hear me? Gor™ Kennard was holding to the back chair. “Violet,” he sald, “why don't you play your big scene something like that?" The expression on her face changed suddenly, for she saw that he was very white and unsteady. She drew back, gasping. “You see,” said Kennard, “Hartney sald tonight that it would take dyna- mite to rouse you—and—he was right. Play the scene In that key, Violet, and you'll be on Broadway the rest of your life! You see—I did this—TI'd do anything to help you—because I love you." * ok x % VEN on the next afternoon she was still unnerved and supersensitive, and all at once she put her hand on his arm. “Dearest, you can call me anything you like—silly, or unreasonable, or temperamental, or anything—but 1 just can’t go on tonight If Hartney's there. I can't do it! Oh, I'll be all right in a few days, but tonight I just can't—when it's S0 new—and bewils, dering—and I hate him so! I'd screang if he touched me!” Instantly Kennard was apprehens sive. “Violet! Do you know what you're saying? When we haven't any ung derstudies yet? When—" She clung to him appealingly. “Play the part yourself, Maurice® You're up in it—and it's.something you can do. Please! If you don't, Tll have hysterics the minute he touches me. It's only for tonight and maybe tomorrow. After tha won't notice him.” i He soothed her and pleaded with her for an hour, but at the end of it he went to interview the producer. It was a difficult situation to explain, but the producer was old and wise in the capriciousness of women. “Sure,” he sald, “that's all right. It she feels like that, you go on tonight and tomorrow. Tell Hartney I said for you to do so.” With many misgivings, he went to Hartney, but the older man, who had no fear of Kennard as a rival actor, was unexpectedly complacent. “Suit yourself, my boy,” he sald; “sult yourself. I've got an open con- tract for forty weeks anyhow, so you do the work for a couple of days, and I'll draw the salary.” So Kennard went on that night in the first part, which had ever suited him, and after the final curtain the producer, who had carefully watched the play from in front, came back stage to speak to him. A few min- utes later Hartney, looking somewhat dazed, also made his appearance. “Oh, Hartney, were you in fromt, too?" asked the producer. “Yes, and I just came back to tell you that if that fellow goes on again tomorrow——" “Hold on! I've just hired Kennard for the run of the play. Your com- tract's something else again. So I'm going to put you in another piece.” * ok ¥ * - TTHE play came to New York, and after the opening night the critics rose up in a body and heralded the arrival of twin genluses. “The curtain fell,” said the dean of the experts, “on the conclusion of one of the most impressive interpreta- tions that any actor has given in New York for years. As to Miss Dunn. nothing more exquisitely wrought out than her performance, nothing more impressive and piteous than her act- ing in her most !mportant scene with Mr. Kennard, has been seen in recent years.” And so on, for column after column, throughout the metropolitan press. It was all the more incomprehensi- ble to the management, then. when Violet in the middle of the second week and with seats selling four months in advance, handed in her notice. “Oh, no,” she sald to the dumb- founded producer, “nothing's wrong at all. I'm simply going to leave the stage.” “Leave the stage!” he gasped. “You ~leave the stage! Leave the stage— now! Are you crazy?" She shook her head. o, I'm going to be married.” “But look here—what would mar- riage have to do with it?” . “I've been on the stage for seve: years” she said; “ever since I sixteen. I've seen a lot of marriages among stage people, and I've watched them to see how they work. And it seems to me that if both the man and the girl are poor and unknown they have a good chance of being happy together and of staying married. 1If one of them is important and the other isn't, their chance isn't as good. But if both of them are stars, they've hardly any chance at all. There's too much to disagree about. The best combination I've ever seen is when only one of the two is on the stage— and the other one understands, and helps, and encourages, and makes a saw his expression she started. His voice had a razor edge to It “You used to say you were in love with me—once—didn’t you?” The color surged up in her cheeks. “Well 7" t didn’t take you long to get over come a great center of industry. The | g je7* German undertaking has contemplated the bringing of a large part of the bogs under cultivation, together with the conversion of the peat iuto fuel,|you. to be employed in the development{you weren't worth it. Her eyes wavered. “How do you know it didn't?" “How can I help knowing? I loved I loved you until I found out 1 didn’t for- of electrical energy for agricultural | get. I thought at least you had cared purposes, light and po' situated within a radius of fifty miles. A network of canals is, it is reported, | to her heart, in process of formation to drain the ground, and the peat dredged out {is to be utilized in the way just de- scribed. It is estimated that the gas produced from the peat will furnish work to the amount of 600 horse- as well as for supplying |for me once, and that was something. r to a number of towns | Love—emotion! Bah!” She had risen to her feet. Her hands were pressed but Kennard was blind. “Emotion!” he said. “Why, that's why you can't act! You haven't a true emotion in you! And the time I've wasted on you—the thought I've wasted on you—" “Maurice!” she sald. “Maurice!” “Oh, it ian't that I care any more— power hours for each ton, and a latge| 1. ") no past that. But out of pity quantity of ammonia will be recov-|g " Yoo ity mind you—Tve kept ered for use as fertilizer. Guided by Electricity. A company was the first to experi- you on in this plece. I gave you the only opportunity you've ever had. And tomorrow night,, when the producer comes down to see you—well, that'll FRENCH transatlantio steamship |, ", 0o 1've lost good jobs on ac- Do you know what count of you. ment with the radlogoniometer In- .., gegerve?" vented by Bellini and Tosi. By means | "5 "{ook a quick step forward and of this apparatus the direction of an| g jherately slapped her face. invisible vessel, sailing along a coast and emitting wireless signals, She came at him like an avenging can be|syry her eyes blazing, her breast determined from two stations on the | heaving. shore and dts course can be accurate- “Maurice—you struck me! You 1y mapped. Conversely, a vessel fur-|gared to strike me! When I—when I nished with a radfogoniometer can|was coming back to you—after five determine its place mear a coast by | years—after five years of waiting for observing the difections of the waves | you, and wanting you, and praying coming from two wirele: stations on | for you! And you could talk to me the shore, and ean thus make its way | like that—and—" Her hands fell 1n & fox when the coast lights are in- |1imply to her sides. *Oh, my God!" visible. she said brokenly. “And all Tve real home to come back to. So T— just decided to—retire.” The producer played his last card. “And give up five hundred dollars a week?” “Five- “Your contract calls for a hundred. 11l make a new one—five hundred a week."” Her eyes were very wide. “It's almost > “Almost—a what?" “I was going to say ‘temptation.’ " “Well, ain't it?" She shook her head. The producer walked over to the window and stood there, gasing down at the street. “Well,” he said at length, “Ken- nard's got something I never had, anyhow. I was wonderin’ who the devil would ever have given up five hundred dollars—or five dollars—a week for me.” * k¥ % TTHE confident youns Englishman turned back from his hostess. “Now, when did you get over the idea that you could have been an sctress, Mrs. Kennard? Or, as a mat- ter of fact, are you quite over it yet?” Sha glanced across the table at her husband, who was perhaps the great- est figure on the American stage. She recalled once more what the papers had said about her sixteen years ago. She looked up at the Englishman and laughed softly. “Still,” she said, “you can’t prove that 1 couldn’t have been an actress— now, can you?" He leaned toward her paternally. “Why, bless’ your heart, that only proves my point. It's born in yo women to think you can act. That what they all s&y." 5 (Copyright, 1922, AU rights reserveg)