Evening Star Newspaper, July 23, 1922, Page 52

| By T4 THE PERFECT HUSBAND HERE was sullef™Silence across the breakfast table. Lucy Val- lentine bent her head, and un- sectng poked at her food. Her husband finished his ham and eggs delib- way his plate,and loung- v, pushed 3 ing back in 3 sucked the wind through his teeth with little smacking s of his tongue. Then he leisurely 1 the morning newspa rose, took bat and coat from the closet, and 4 of the apartwment without . samming the outer door 1 ¢ Luey sat on, think of hope- That was Tom-—that was acted: they in for spell of surliness. She thirteen years of her 1 the thirteen » twenty-six per- her fate, yoked ill-mannered, le of Low he offended ight that infuriated Tom regarded him- 1, faithful, good, to her and te his enough. In fairmess, Tom was gen- ness itself; he m were was o ith and h was that t hush, devoted It was true v; he saved; he nd ov v ut an low- sidered that by he s ed his duty as a husband, nobly, and arded the cause of their con- stant bickerings. which recently he had (hosen to treat in moody silence, as be- g entijely his wife's responsibility. He never missed an opportunity to point he had no vices; he did not even smoke. He regarded her an ungrateful spouse—a ky, unreasonable, nervous woman. * ok kK her that purl TCY rocker her head in her hands and moaned. Tom Was o egregi- ously stupid, so self-satisfied, so blind. She could have forgiven his obtusene: but she could not forgive his rudeness. very day of his life he unconsciously affronted her, and almost as frequently He growled at her, and when crossed; did so deliberately. at xneered her, shouted her into silence. Siie had rebelled this morning. The incident that had precipitated the whole trouble had been of trivial incon- sequence; it always was. Tom had said the cream was sour and she had casu- allv remarked that she didn't see how at could be since it was the morn- ng's delivery, and then he had shouted At her that he guessed he knew what was talking about, and that when he <aid the cream was sour it was sour. She had said nothing in reply; she had onsidered his ungraciousness dispas- sionately for a time and then in the midst of the breakfast she had sud- denly put her clasped hands down be- fore her on the table and €aid her say temperately and earnestly, urging her right to courteous treatmer She was familiar with the look of displeasure that came into his face as he listened., and reaching for argument that an would strengthen her wor she had siluded to Mr. (¢ and his wife, who fived in the adjoining apartment, and hat had proved the spark to his anger. For Tom hated the Grays, hated everything about them. The suite of rooms these neighbors occupied was on the same floor as the Vallentines': an air-well separated the two establish- ments, and upon this source of light and ventilation a bedroom window of each apartment gave vent. Much that went on in the Gray household could be heard by the Vallentines, and Tom and Lucy listened to the stray words and casual conversations that went on between their unsuspecting neighbors, unabashed. loved the way in which the ach other. It was so different from that to which she was ustomed. The man had extraor- dinary nuances in his voice; it was beautifully modulated, and when he hap- pened to address his wife as “my dear, it was like a caress. Tom chose to ridicule the little intimate things they said fo one another, and to imitate Mr. Gray's manner. It made Lucy acutely uncomfortable, for she admired Mrs. Gray, was genuinely fond of her, and was in terror lest Tom should be in turn overheard. Lucy had had her misgivings as to the decency of listening to her friend’s confidential murmurings with her husband. but she assured herself that her motive was not unworthy curiosity. 1t was merely that she enjoyed with a hungry soul the man- ner in which this particular husband il wife spoke to each other. Tt was beautiful, it soothed her, it was like exquisite distant music. * oK ¥ <HE had come to be more or less intimately acquainted with Mrs. Gray since that lady had moved next door. The two women visited each other, made frequent shopping trips together and sometimes lunched in each other's kitchen. Lucy - garded Mrs. Gray with undisguised envy; she considered her the most fortunate woman she knew. She had looks, plenty of clothes, an exquis- itely furnished apartment and she had an adoring husband. No wonder Alice Gray could be happy. Mr. Gray was an interior decorator. He was often away for several day at a time when he went to supervise the work on some rich man’s coun- try home. He returned home, always with a trifling present for his wife—a bangle, a pair of silver buckles, a lacquered box or perhaps only & hand- ful of jonquils. Frequently he took her out to dinner and the theater, and once, to Lucy's positive knowledge, he had inveigled her down town in order to buy her & hat. That had seemed to Lucy the apotheosis of conjugal devotion. Her own husband had never brought her home unexpectedly a present in all his life. Once in a great while she induced him to go with her to the theater or the movies. He had never commented on anything she wore or took the smallest notice of her hat | or gown. Lucy, considering her own lot ;\nd‘ the happy circumstances that were Mrs. Gray's on this particular morn- ing, said to herself with considerable bitterness that while she was in no danger of coveting her neighbor's husband, she did long with all her soul for some degree of contentment with her own. And upon these re- flections came Alice Gray, her sweet, composed face free of worry, her serene beauty glowing today with unexpected interest. Alonzo had telephoned, she ex- plained, that he was obliged to go {o Boston. He would have to be away for several days and he wanted his wife to accompany him. Could she arrange her affairs to be ready to leave with him on the late afternoon train? Could she? Alice Gray's eyes danced with excitement as she caught Luc haud here was nothing to detain her, she had never visited Bos- ton, she thought it perfectly sweet of Alonzo to want her to go. There was the- whole day before her in which to get ready; she needed a new hat, a veil and a bag, and she urged HE FICKLE GODDESS (Continued from Second Page.) Aristide trod on air during the two minutes’ walk to the Hotel de I'Eu- rope. At the bureau he ordered a couple of packs of cards and a supply of drinks and went to his palatial room on the ground floor. In a few moments the Comte de Lussigny ap- Aristide offered him a two- which was ceremoni- Then he tore the the packs of peared. tranc corona. ously accepted. wrapping off one of cards and shuffied. Monsieur,” said he, still shuffling, i should like to deal two hands at ecarte. It signifies nothing. Tt 1s 1 experiment. Will you cut?” Volontiers,” said the count. Aristide took up the pack, dealt three cards to the count, three cards to himself, two cards to the count, two to himself, and turned up the king of hearts as the eleventh card. “Monsieur.” said he, ‘“expose your hand and 1 will expose mine.” Botk men threw their hands face uppermost on the table. Aristide’s was full of trumps, the count’s of valueless cards. * X K ¥ JF locked at his adversary with his roguish, triumphant smile. The count looked at him darkly. “The ordinary cardplayer does not know how to deal like that” he said with sinister significance. “But T am not ordinary in anything. my dear sir,” laughed Aristide in his large boastfulness. £ 1 were, do vou think 1 would have agreed to vour absurd proposal? Voyons, Tonly wanted to show you that in dealing cards 1 am your equal. Now, the let- ters—" The count threw a small packet on the table. “You will per- mit me? I do not wish to read them. I verify only. “Good,” sald he. “And the confession? “What you like” sald the count coldly. Aristide scribbled a few lines that would have been devastating to the character of a Hyrcanean tiger and handed the paper and fountain pen to the count. “Will you sign?" ‘The count glanced at the words and signed. Voila,” said Aristide, laying Mrs. Errington's cheque beside the docu- ments. “Now let us play. The best of three ‘games?” ) “Good,” said the count. “But you will excuse me, monsieur, if 1 claim to play for ready money. The cheque will take five days to negotiate and if I lose I shall evidently have to leave Aix tomorrow morning.” “That's reasonable,” sald Aristide. He drew out his fat note case and rounted twenty-five one-thousand- franc pofes on io the table, And then began the most exciting game of rards he had ever played. In the first place he was playing with another person’s money for a fantastic stake, girl's honor and happiness.. Sec- hdly he was pitted against a master o ecarte. And thirdly he knew that his adversary would cheat it he couid znd that his adversary suspected him of fraudulent designs. So as they played each map craned his head forward and looKed. at the other A RISTIDE lost the first game. He <Y wiped the sweat from his fore- head. In the second game he won the vole in one hand. The third and final game began. They played carefully, with keen, quick eyes. Their breathing came hard. The count’s lips, parted beneath his uptwisted mustache, showed his teeth like a cat's. Aristide lost sense of Il outer things In the thrill of the encounter. They snarled the stereo- typed phrases necessary for the con- duct of the game. At last the points stood at four for Aristide and three for the adversary. It was Aristide’s deal. Before turning up the eleventh card he paused for the fraction of 2 second. If it was the king, he had won. He flicked it neatly face up- ward. It was not the king. ‘en donne.” Non. Le roi.” The count played and marked the king. Aristide had no trumps. The game was lost.” He sat back white, while the count, smiling, gathered up the bank notes. “And now, Monsieur Pujol,” said he impudently, “I am willing to sell you this rubbish for the cheque.” Aristide jumped to his feel. «Never!” he cried. Madness seized him. Regardless of the fact that he had nothing like another thousand pounds left were with to repay Mrs. Errington If he lost, he shouted: "1 will play again for it. Not ecarte. One cut of the cards. Ace lowesL” “All right,” said the count. “Begin, you." Aristide watched his hand like a cat as he cut. He cut an eight. Aristile gave a little gasp of joy and cut quickly. He held up a knave and laughed aloud. Then he stopped short as he saw the count about to pounce on the documents and the cheque. He made a swift movement and grabbed them first, the other man’'s hand on his. “Canaille!” * x kX dashed his free hand into the E H adventurer’s face. The man stag- gered back. Aristide pocketed the preclous papers. The count scowled at him for an undecided second and then bolted from the room. “Whew!" said Arfstide, sinking into his chair and wiping his face. “That ‘Was® & narrow escape.” He looked at his watch. It was only 10 o'clock. It had seemed as if his game with Lussigny had lasted for hours. He could not go to bed and stood confronted with anti-climax. After a while he went in search of Eugene Miller and, having found him in solitary meditation on stained glass windows in the dim-lit grounds of the villa, sat down by his side and for the rest of the evening poured his peculiar knowledge of Europe into the listening ear of the young man from Atlanta. On the following morning, as soon as he was dressed, he learned from the conclerge that the Comte de Lus- signy had left for Paris by the early train. “Geod," sald Aristide. A little later Mrs. Errington met him in the lounge and aceompanied him te the lawn, where they had sat \man's figers with flerce jntendity. the day before . . . “I have no werds to thank you. Monsieur Pujol,” she said, with tears in her eves. “I have heard how you shamed him at the tables. It was brave of you." “It was nothin; He shrugged his shoulders as it he were in the habit of doing deeds like that every day of his life. “And your exquisite daughter, madame?" i “Poor Betty! She is prostrate. She says she will never hold up her head again. Her heart is broken.” “It is young and will be mended,” sald Aristide. “She smiled. sadly, “It will be & question of time. But she is grateful to you, Monsieur Pujol. She realizes from what a terrible fate you have saved her.” She sighed. There was a brief silence. “After this,” she continued, “a fur- ther stay in Aix would be too painful. ‘We have decided to take the Savoy express this evening and get back to our quiet home in Somerset.” “Ah, madame,” said Aristide ear- nestly. “And shall I not have the pleasure of seeing the charming Miss Betty again?” “You will come and stay with us in September. Let me see? The 15th. Why not fix a date? You have my address? No? Will you write it down?” She dictated: ‘“Wrotesly Manor, Burnholme, Somerset. There I'll try to show you how grateful 1 am.” * *x x x SHE extended her hand. He bowed over it and kissed in in his French way and departed a very happy man. The Erringtons left that evening. Aristide waylaid them as they were entering the hotel omnibus with a preposterous bouquet of flowers, which he presented to Betty, whose pretty face was hidden by & motor veil. He bowed, laid his hand on his heart and said: “Adieu, mademol- selle.” “No,” she sald in a low wolce, But most graciously, “Au revoir, Monsieur Pujol For the next few days Alx seemed to be tame and colorless. In an in- explicable fashion, too, it had b come unprofitable. Aristide no lon; knew that he was going to win, and he did not win. He lost consider- ably. So much so that on the morn- ing when he was to draw the cash for the cheque at the Credit Lyonnais he had only fifty pounds and some odd silver left. ~“Aristide, looking at the remainder rather ruefully, made & great resolution. He would gamble no more. Already he was richer thin he had ever been In his life. He would leave Alx. Tiens! Why ghodfd he not go to his good friends at Bo- cardons at Nimes, bringing with him & gold chain for Bocardon and a pair of earrings for the adorable Zette? There he would look about him. He would use the thousand pounds as & stepping-stone to legitimate fortune. Then he would visit the Erringtons in England, and if the beautiful Miss Betty smiled on him<—why, after all, he was an honmest man, without & feather on his consclence. ' So, jauntily swinging his cane, he marched into the office ‘of the Credit Lyonnsis, went into the inner ro Lo ; ot ) A A.“c“[-! ( < VR TR Series by Another of I The S ta: First-Run Fiction America’s Leading Authors | By Fr v \ THERE WAS A SULLEN SILENCE ACROSS THE BREAKFAST TABLE. Lucky to come with her and help her pick them out * ok * ¥ LV.’CY could not resist. She was not small enough to refuse to share this friend’s pleasure, even though she felt the injustice of Alice Gray's hay ing so much and herself so little. And the bitter feelings of the early morning were forgotten as she hastily piled the unwashed breakfast dishes in the sink to soak, gave an indifferent glance at the unmade beds, thrust head and arme into her trim tailor skirt and reached for the smart little yellow straw hat which he had only been able to wear once since she bought it a month before. Later, seated beside her radiant friend on the top of a 5th avenue bus, the spring sunshine flooding the city, the street gay with fashionably dressed women, she caught some- thing of Alice Gray's exhilaration. ‘The two women threaded the aisles of department stores, priced fabrics and exclaimed over the novelties. Alice . An Adventure of Aristide Pujol “Ah, your cheque, monsieur. that we were to colleet. T am sorry. It has come back from the London bankers.” “How come back?" “It has not been honored. See, mon sieur? Not known. No account. ” The cashier pointed to the grim words across the cheque. “Comprends pas,” faltered Aristide. “It means that the person who gave you the cheque has no account at tnis bank.” Aristide took the cheque and looked at it in a daszed way. “Then I do not get my twenty-five thousand francs “Evidently not,” said the cashier. * ok k% RISTIDE stood for a while stunned. ‘What did it mean? His thousand pounds could not be lost. It was it~ possible. There was some mistake. It was an evil dream. With a heavy weight on the "top of his head, he went out of the (Jedit Lyonnais and mechanically crossed the little street separating the bank from the cafe on the Place Carnot. There he sat stupidly and wondered. The waiter hovered in front of him. “Monsieur desire?” Aristide waved him away absently. Yes, it was some mistake. Mrs. Errington in her agitation must have used the wrong cheque book. But even rich English people do not carry about with them a circulating library assortment of cheque books. It was incomprehensible—and mean- while, his thousand pounds. The little square blazed before him in the August sunshine. Oppo- site flashed the white mass of the Etablissement des Bains. There was the old Roman arch of Titus, gray and venerable. There were the trees of the gardens in riotous greenery. There on’ the right, marking the hour of eleven on its black face, was the clock of the Comptoir National. It was Alx—familiar Aix—not a land of dreams. And there coming rapidly across the Comptoir National was the well knit figure of the young man from Atlanta. Eugene Miller, in a fine frensy, threw himself into & chair beside Aristide. “See here. Can you understand this?” He thrust into his hand a pink strip of paper. It was & cheque for a hun- dred pounds, made payable to Eugene Miller, esquire, signed by Mary Er- rington, and marked “Not known. No acoount.” “Tonnerre de Dieu!” cried Aristide. “How dld you get this?” “How did I get it? I cashed it for her the day she went away. She sald urgent affairs summoned ‘her from Aix—no time to wire for funds— wanted to pay her hotel bill—and she gave me the address of her old Eng- 1tsh home in Somerset and invited me to come there In Septmeber. Fif- teenth of September. Said that you were coming. And now I've got & bum cheque. I guess I can't wander about this country alone. I need blinkers and harness and & man with & whip.” He went on indignantly, Ariatide fomposed hig face into an expression | sought him in the garden. heaval He saw it all. the whole mocking drama. He, Aristide Pujol. was the most sweetly, the most completely swindléd man In France. * * ¥ x THE Comte de Lussigny, the mild Mrs. Errington and the beautiful Betty were in league together and had exquisitely plotted. They had conspired as soon as he had accused the count of cheating. The rascal must have gone straight to them from Miller's room. No wonder that Lus- signy, when insulted at the tables, had sat like a tame rabbit and had No won- der he had accepted the accusation of adventurer. No wonder he had re- fused to play for the cheque which he knew to be valueless. But why. thought Aristide, did he not at once consent to sell the papers on the stipulation that he should be paid Tn notes? Aristides found an answer. He wanted to get everything for nothing, afraid of the use that Aris- tide might make of a damning con- fession, and also relying for success on his manipulation of the cards. Finally he had desired to get hold of 2 dangerous cheque. In that he had been foiled. But the trio had got away with his thousand pounds, his wonderful thousand pounds. He reflected, still keeping an atten- tive eye on young Eugene Miller and interjecting a sympathetic word, that after he had paid his hotel bill he would be as poor on quitting Alx-les- Bains as he was when he had entered it. Slo transit. As it was in the beginning with Aristide Pujol, is now and ever shall be. “But I have my clothes—such clothes as I've never had in my life,” thought Aristide. “And a diamond and sap- phire tie-pin and a gold watch, and all sorts of other things. Tron de T'air, I'm still rich.’ “Who would have thought she was like that?” saild he. “And a hundred pounds, too. A lot of mone; For nothing in the world would he :;lvl confessed himself a fellow vic- m “I don’t care a cent for the hundred pounds,” cried the young man. *“Our factory turns out seven hundred and sixty-seven million pairs of boots per annum.” (Aristide, not I, is respon- sible for the statistics.) “But I have a feeling that in this hoary country I'm just a little toddling child. And I hate it. I do, sir. I want a nurse te take me roun * * x ¥ Ambl flashed the'lightning of his wit upon the young man from Atlanta, Gs. “You do, niy dear youns friend. I'll be your nurse, at a weekly ‘salary—say, a hundred francs—it doesn’t matte We will not quar- Eugene Miller was startlod. sald Aristide, with a convire- ing flourish. “T'll clear robbers and sirens and harpies from your path. T'll show you things in Europe—{rsm Tromso to Cap Spartivento—that you never dreamed of. TII lead you to every stained.glass window. in the world. I kmow them all.” “I particulsrly want to ses those In the ?-* of §t. Sabald, tn Nurem- of parental {nterest, but within-him | perg. wp- PR J T T T S S T T Ty o Gray bought a charming hat, the veil and a neat little handbag with nickel clasps, and Lucy indulged herself in a much needed electric iron. In buoy- ant spirits they made a leisurely prog- ress at a late luncheon hour to one of the smart, new French restaurants on Park avenue. And almost at the entrance way, about to pass through the revolving glass doors to the street, absorbed and gayly chatting together, they en- countered Alonzo Gray and a hand- somely dresssed woman. A happy ex- By W. J. Locke Aristide. “I will take you there. We start toda “But, Mr. Pujol.” said the somewhat bewildered Georgian. “I thought you were a man of fortune.” “I am more than a man. I am a s91. dier. I am a soldier of fortune. The fickle goddess has for the moment de- serted me. But I am loyal. I have for all worldly goods two hundred and fifty dollars, with which I shall honorably pay my hotel bill. I say 1 am a soldier of fortune. But,” he slapped his chest, “I am the only honorable one on the continent of Europe.” The young man fixed upon him the hard blue eyes. not of the enthusiast for stained-glass windows, but of the senior partner in the boot factory of Atlanta, Ga. “I believe you,” deal. Shake.” “And now,” said Aristide, after hav- ing shaken hands, Ycome and lunch with me at Nikola’s for the last tim He rose, stretched out both arms in a wide gesture and smiled with fis irresistible ancient mariner's eyes at the young man. “We lunch. We eat ambrosia. Then we go out together and see the won- derful world through the glass-blood of saints and martyrs and apostles and the good Father Abrabam and Louis Quatorze. Viens, mon ¢ther ami. It is the dream of my life.” Practically penniless and absolutely disillusioned, the amazing man was radiantly happy. (Copyright. All rights reserved.) said he. “It's a Heat and Life. \VE often speak of our bodies as machines or engines working upon principles similar to those em- ployed in mechanics. The idea that the food we eat resembles in its ac- tion the fuel supplied to a furnace {s familiar, and yet one can hardly avold = little start of surprise upon learning that the laws of heat-engines are so- berly applied to explain the growth of plant and animal life. This has been done in a most inter- esting way by a British scientist be- fore the Philosophical Soclety in Lon- don. He points out, for instance, that the increase of available energy, re- sulting from the building up of a plant out of inorganic materials, can only be explained, in accordance with thermo-dynamic laws, by differences of temperature during the growth of the plant, and his caluculations show that the difference between day and night Is quite sufficient to account for the differences of temperature required. Similar prineiples growth of animal Nature give: nothing for nothing, and demands an exact equivalent for every ex- penditure of her energies, whether she is aiding man to drive an engine, causing an oak to grow, or building up the muscles of an athlete or the brain of a philosopher. And as far as her work upon the planet is con- cerned, the source of her suppliss in all theso cases is the sun. —_— Honelulu has the largest pineapple in.the-wor! 2.0 3 A IR H T apply to the T Il( was just like her life. empty and clamation burst from Lucy and she started forward with a delighted greeting. “Why, it's your husband—it's Mr. Gray— But her words dled on her lips. Alice Gray's fingers 'closed like a vice on her arm and the hand dragged her aside. Something ugly and un- pleasant flashed into Lucy's mind. There was a whirling silence, a dizzy- ing moment while her pulse raced and her breath was still. Then, un- conscious and still chatting amiably, Alonzo Gray and his companion passed into the street. “Two, please—and in the cogner. T like those upholstered seats.” Alice Gray composedly addressed herself to the head waiter and serenely followed him into the cool and flower-scented restaurant. “Come, Lucy—" * % k¥ UCY, shaken, bewildered, the sig- nificence of what had occured still half guessed, mechanically obeyed. Mechanically she ungloved her hands, mechanically she pushed stray locks of hair up under her hat mechanically she ordered. But when the obsequious head waiter had mur- mured: “Bien, madame,” and had de- parted, she could only keep her eyes on her plate and sit tongue-tied, fear- ful of any comment she might hazard, miserably conscious of what must be her friend’s humiliation and dis- comfiture. That unquestionably had been Alonzo Gray, and the woman with him had been—Lucy knew with unmistakable intuition that the wom- an was not of her world. Alice had seen it all: she had understood and had saved Lucy from precipitating a frightfully embarrassing encounter. And it had been Alonzo! Alonzo, the devoted, attentive, considerate com- panfon—the sharer of her marriage vows—her mate, her man, her lawful wedded husband. About Lucy's head came tumbling a castle’s walls and in her ears there roared the sound of crumbling masonry. She shuddered and bent her face closer to the white * Alice Gray 1aid her hand on Lucy's arm. “You mustn’t feel so badly. I understand what's passing in your mind—but, my dear, you mustn't concern your- self on my account! I know. I know all about it.” Lucy met her friend's unruffied gaze with widening eyes and parted lips. Mrs. Gray smiled at her, 2 wry. twisted little smile. “Oh, yes, I know all about it, and —and I don’t care! Alonzo is ull that I need in a husband; he is con- siderate, Attentive, deferential; he likes to be with me and to have me with him, and he loves me. Oh, ves, he does; he loves me truly. There have always been women in Alonzo's life. This one happens to be a clever artist. Alonzo employs her as a decorator. I even know her name. She’s Flora Balzanni. You know Bal- zanni, the opera singer? She's his divorced wife—and is quite promis- cuous. Alonzo has been—well—at- tentive to her for more than a year. Of course, he has no idea I know anything about it and I wouldn't have him suspect I've learned for anything in the world. You see, he wouldn't want to hurt me, and he would think that if T knew, T would be offended. But I have no more feeling of jealously for this passing fancy of his than I would have for a good cigar he enoys after dinner. Oh, I know my views are anything but conventional. I am shocking | you;” Alice interrupted herself, smil- ing a rather hard. cold little smile; | “I would shock most women. But I believe altogether too much em- phasis is placed upon fidelity in mar- riage. As long as my husband in no way jeopardizes my rights as his lawful wife, why should I concern my- self with what he does outside his home! Frankly, I would rather have him unfaithful to me in an occasional way, as he is, than have him drink himself into besottedness, as many a man does, and bring home to me a throbbing head, & nasty temper. and a rancid breath. Alonzo satisfies me; he more than adequately fulfills his part of life's companion with me. I am thoroughly content. What else matters?’ * k¥ * HEE own apartment smelled close to Lucy when later the same day she closed the door behind her. It seemed cheerless, empty, desolate. The mood with which Alice Gray had infected her all day dropped from her like a cloak suddenly falling to the floor. She gazed wearlly at the familiar walls about her: there was the old faded sofa, the ugly yellow-cased piano, the carpet with the stain of ink near the table, the table itself with its missing castor; even her father's protrait hung askew from the molding. In the bedroom were the| tumbled beds, and the kitchen smelled of stale food and dirty, soaking dishes. i stale and drab. She put away her things and about getting dinner, washing the dishes whipping the unmade beds together setting the table. After all, her hus band was probably no worse than any other woman's. She made him a pan o hot biscuits, of which she knew he was particularly fond. At 6 o'clock she heard him come in. She heard his creaking steps to the closet where he always hung his hat and coat; she heard him creak his way back to the front room where she knew he had thrown himself down on the sofa, and was reading the evening paper with feet cocked over one hard, upholstered arm. He had no word of greeting for her; he would have none; a dark and sullen silence would enwrap him for days to come. She put the food on the table at the half-hour and called him to dinner. He did not stop to wash his face or hands or comb his hair. He came just as he was, sullenly, silently, and hunch- ed his chair up to his place. Without a glance at her, he began to eat. She watched him lifting the food to his! mouth, she watched him spreading the hot biscuits she had made for him with thick, hard dabs of butter, she watched him as he moved his heavy, muscular jaws, slowly and deliberately masticat- ing. There he sat, glum, lowering, un- friendly! Suddenly something snapped in her. She screamed; she screamed pierc ingly—one wild, sharp shrick. She buried her face in her hands, forcing ank Norris flood of sobbing that beat upon hif ears. It had been a long, long time since he had laid a hand upon her in affection, yet now he was moved by the violence of her grief and the un< famillar impulse came to him. Ha laid down his knife and fork and stared at her stolidly, frowning deeply. He thought of getting up and patting her shoulder; he tried to think of something to say, and in his perplexity began to talk at random He did not know how to be gentl he had forgotten how to be tender. The iron bonds of habit were too well % forged about him. He had alway treated his wife with contumely, and now when he strove to reach her troubled spirit with gentler wordd he found himself only mouthing justification of his actions that morn. ing. Lucy could not suspect that be- hind the harsh volce and slow, clumsy words thers stirred within him the first concern for her he had known in years. Only the dogged reiteration of the facts about ths cream reached her consciousnes Her sobbing fell silent, but she still pressed her palms to her cheeks, hes fingers to her eves. Presently shn was awaro he had forsaken the topin of the cream: now it was of hic vire tues he discoursed. “I let you live your own life; you &0 and come as you pleasc; you have vour own friends. I mever ask you how or why you spend the monew every month, and I naver let the firs %0 by without depositing your chec in the.bank. I never question what you do with yourself all day; all T asi of you is to run the house and keen things nice. 1 don't sce how you've got much fault to find with me. T don't drink or gamble or smoke; [, don't go out nights, and I've never looked at another woman in all my life. Now some men—-" Lucy listened until she could stand With wet tears staining no more. her cheeks, her face convulsed, she suddenly straightened herself and / faced him, her lip trembling, her hands half outstretched to him across the table. “Oh, Tom, Tom'" she cried, “I don’t care how moral you are! I don't care anything about other women. I don't care whether you go after them or not! Seek them, kiss them! Gamble. smoke and drink! Deny yourself nothing on my account. I don't care how wicked you are. All I want you to do Is to be kind to me, Tom—be kind—be kind! Don't be so ugly and mean to me! And sometimcs—just now and then—try to love me a little!” (Copyright, 1022, French Honors for U. S. Newspaperdont PARIS, July 12, 1922, HE French government has dons an unusual honor to American newspaperdom. in giving a permanent place in its art gal- leries to the portrait of Frank B. Noye president of the Associated Pres: painted by Ossip Perelma. Final delivery by the artist was mada on April 16, and the painting is now on view at the Grand Palais des Champs- Elysees, in the large hall adjoining the annual salons where state acquired can- vases are first put on exhibition, awalt ing thelr final destination in the Lux- embourg or other public art gallery. The portrait was done at Washi ton, the home of Mr. Noyes, when Perel- ma, who is called the “Russian Rem- brandt,” made a tour of the United States, which lasted for several years and on which he received commissions to do many notable personages. At San Francisco he painted Senator Phelan. At Dearborn, he did Henry Ford’s portrait for him. At Detroit, it was Joe Hendry and Heury Wood Bootli, father of George Booth, who publishcs the Detroit News. At Dayton, he did Gov. Cox. At Baltimore, he began President Harding (then a candidate). and finished him at Washington. Then the Russian painter did a novel thing. In truth, the times were Jjust ripe for it. He returned to Paris, bring- ing with him a loan exhibition of his own works that attracted great atten- tion. It consisted of & hundred and more of these portraits of American men—men only. It approximated the first gallery of representative American men ever presented to the gaze of Eu- ! rope. Many of the names had become household words in Paris at the tim: of the peace conference. Among these portraits was that of the president of the Associated Press, which a French government decre on proposition of the minister of pul lic instruction and beaux-arts, make & permanent acquisition of the state. 1t is the third work of Perelma to find an official place in France. The first is the Metchnikoff portrait, which hangs in the library of the Pasteur In- All rights reserved ) stitute. The other is “The Smile of Victory,” acquired by the ¥French gov- t | ernment from the exposition of Rouen in full war time (1916). | Unlike most works of the “Russian embrandt,” the present portrait is in rizht colors. Mr. Noyes, in white tennis suit, is seated in a chair in hi garden, which is all aglow with radiant sunlight and the colors of flowers and fruits, In the mind of the panter. who is an enthusiast of American types, there is a kind of symbollsm in this light and color and “the ambi- ance of happiness and perfume” of American life and character as hed found it—a parallel in “the generosity of nature in that garden and ia & greatness of soul of these men!" STERLING HEILIG Liquefying Carbon. ARBON may be melted and main- tained in a liquid condition, ac- cording to the experiments of u French investigator. The heating was effected under great pressure in the electric furnace, and & curious phe- nomenon was noticed at 1,500 atmos pheres, namely, that after a brief fajure of the arc, the current refused to pass even when the power we: much increased. It is supposed that as the carbon passed into a liquid and transparent state, it assumed # rare allotropic form, becoming & non- conductor. The test was too brief for a study of this condition, but was made to include a sudden cooling of the fingers deep 'into her cyebalis. Then she began to sob brokenly, pas- sionately, all the grief pent up in her bursting out in an agony of weeping. * * ¥ *x IN thirteen years Tom Vallentine had never seen his wife cry. He was startled now—alarmed and shocked. the moiten carbon by a flooding with water of the interior of the pressure vessel. The minute diamonds were recognized in the gray powder thus obtained, the result being, however. not wholly satisfactory —_— Scientific methods for cutting down the fatigue of factory workers is roving successful, the result in one f'u.. actory belng a 27 per cent groase in eficlencd - . .. . . .