Evening Star Newspaper, December 9, 1928, Page 102

2 THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, DECEMBER 9, 1928—PART T. onte Carlo Keeps Eternal Suicide Vigilance Over Heavy Losers BY FRANCIS DICKIE. ONACO, December 7.—Ever since that July day in the year 1891 when the little cockney Charles | Wells broke the bank of Monte | Carlo 12 times, tens of thou- | sands of credulous people have come | yearly to the great casino with the same fond hope of reaping an easy fortune. It matters not that the in- of Monte Carld over | a period of 60 vears, and the loss of | countless fortuncs actoss the table there | have proved beyond question the un- | g advantage in favor of the casino, d women cling to the illu- rey can win at the roulette | the card games of trente ot te and baccarat ! st vear the casino made a profit | 3,000,000 francs, according to the | statement jssued the day after I ar rived by the Societe des Bain de Mer | a du Cercle des Etrangers a Monaco, | the name by which the operating com- pany is known Of =il the 2,000,000 people who, ac- ( visited creasing profits les or cording _to verified statistics, fonte Carlo in the last 12 months, I, | least, the other evening walked up | any illusions of ng any of the gambling games. | From the station a zig-zag stairway | leads up a very steep slope between | eolid banks of perfumed greenery, es and a dozen ns, syringa shrub, xotic plants, hiding the long | colored facads of the casin). | Jy the visitor to Monte Carlo nes first into the gambling rooms But as I had no illusions of winning a pittance, let alone 2 fortune, when I reached the little place that lies be- tween the casino entrance and the | circular park, I first entered the | Cafe de Paris, which stands at one | side of the casino, only a minute’s walk | ‘distant. | Fortune favored me. Had I been possessed by the impatience of greed and at once hurried into the, casino, I | would have missed witnessing a unique | =cene, one the least to be expected here in this gathering place of people for| the most part extremely cosmopolitan. Jn, the cafe I took a seat at one of the scarred and battered cdmmon wooden tables. For though the Cafe ©e Paris is one of the most frequently nentioned places in Europe, it is ex-| @eedingly plain in its setting, with fur- ‘niehings actually old and shabby. It is ‘perhaps the one place in all Monte Carlo where *the prices of drinks are #purprisingly moderate. At the moment ©f my entrance there were not more than 30 persons seated about the long anclosure. As I sat down I was con- scious of a certain tenseness in the air. The attitudes of the drinkers were un- wsually alert. Near me a bald-headed man, very well dressed, perhaps 50 years of age, was standing. He con- cluded an apparently earnest speech in French, addressed to two men and a ‘woman, as I ordered my drink of mild brown beer—a beverage, I think, ‘of less alcoholic content than the near- The Death Tablet, an Incident of the Roulette Tables in the Gambling Kingdom Where Thousands Fortune and Are Watched When They Lose by Vigilants Whose Duty It Is to Prevent Suicide. beer of prohibition's day in the land ss the sea. * ¥ ok % ‘\‘Y the other side of the room I now £X hoted another man standing. His | hair was long. He wore a flowing black tie and a shabby black suit. He looked like a painter of the old school, a type once so common on the streets of the | Latin Quarter Paris, but now, alas for romance! seldom seen. This man began peaking to a group of four men at a table. He talked loudly in French, so that every one in the room could hear him, and unfolded the story of his wrongs. I quickly realized his words| were aimed at the well dressed man | standing near me. I listened in sur- | prise. It seemed impossible that such | a scene could be cnacted here in the | Cafe de Paris of Monte Carlo—this gathering place I had always dreamed | as solely devote@ > wealth and leisure. | The shabby man actu: was a painter, He had completed a portrait of the well | dressed man standing near me by ordcr; of that gentleman. The price agreed upon was 500 francs ($20). But when he presented the picture upon the pre- vious day his patron had refused it on the ground that it was not a good like- ness. The artist went on to relate how hard he had worked, and wound up with the startling climax that he was the father of eight children, and so most certainly should be paid Immediately the painter concluded, | the well dressed man replied heatedly that the portrait did not resemble him, was a very bad piece of work, and he was perfectly justified in not paying for it. And that the fact of a man having eight children had no bearing on_judging a work of art. Personally I was inclinel to agree with the man that the painter’s father- ing this unusually large family had | nothing to do with his rating as an| artist. To my surprise, however, the painter's possession of so many chil-| dren seemed to the people in the cafe of paramount importance. The place became divided into two camps, the majority strongly in favor of the artist. Voices rose high in argument. The discussion grew more and more furious. At last one of the men at a table near me, perhaps a family man himself, unable to contain his ire, rushed up to the well dressed man and, shaking his fist under his nose, cried: “You ought to be ashamed. Pay him. He has eight childres!” Instantly the majority in the room took up the ery, “Yes, yes, pay him. Would you let his children starve They raised their voices in high words, and grew angry with one an- % A GENERAL VIEW OF MONTE o] other, and lamented over the -eight children robbed of the nourishment that the 500 francs would buy until at last the patron, who had been imbib- ing freely to meet the situation, no longer could face the adverse criticism. With a sudden abrupt dash he made for the door and disappeared along one of the palm-bordered winding paths of the nearby park. But the painter would not give up. “I will follow him to his home,” he cried, and set out in the wake of his fleeing customer. I wonder what was the outcome? Did the patron secure a reduction in price? That is the trouble with life—too often the scenes encountered break off with- out one ever knowing the ending. * ¥ %k % "THE hour was nearing 10 when I left the Cafe de Paris. A min- ute’s walk across the little place and I had passed through the huge glass doors of the Casino and into a long room at CARLO. THE CASINO AND THEATER AT MONTE CARLO. the left of the entrance. Here, behind a high railing running all around the room, sit at little desks a dozen men. From any one of these men every in- coming visitor must procure a card of admission before the gaming rooms can be entered. Time was when Monte Carlo was free to all. Now an ad- mission fee is charged. The price is 10 francs daily (40 cents) for entramce to the public rooms where roulette and trente et quarante are played, or 30 francs to the private baccarat rooms. Special rates of $4 for the month, or $20 for the season are given. It cer- tainly is the last word in high financing to charge a man to be allowed to go in and lose his money. But from this entrance charge alone, according to the statistics of the Casino for 1926, made public just a day before my ar- rival, the operating company collected 9,000,000 francs. ‘To a gentleman with a little pointed black beard, I presented my passport. He wrote down my name, age, profes- ion, place of birth, took my 10 francs, gave me a gray card and I was free to enter. To prevent any one getting the best of the casino by using a card more than once the colors of the cards are changed every day. Across the long foyer between massive columns of brown marble I went, ad- miring the carving of the so-high ceil- ing and passed through one of the three doors leading to the gaming ta- bles. At the cash booth half way down the room I purchased 10 bronze count- ers, in size a little smaller than an American silver dollar and worth 40 cents each. I then proceeded down through the long series of connecting rooms where nine roulette wheels and half a dozen trente et quarante operate from 10 o'clock forenoon until 2 in the morning every day of the year. Though the hour was still early, every ble was crowded. So I stood behind the seated players at a table at the end t of the room and risked my money on | my favorite carre of four numbers, 8-9-17-12, on the middle dozen, and on red and black. Not that I par- ticularly wished o gamble, but because by so doing I was given the best op- portunity to study this gathering of strangely varied people of all nation- alities, old and haggard women, young men, attractive and plain, and men of every age. All the players, of course, were from places outside of Monaco, for the directors of the Casino with a vast wisdom have forbidden the natives of the principality playing at the tables. Only strangers may ruin themselves. * ok kK S the minutes slipped away, my at- tention became centered on a wom- an sitting at the opposite side of the table. She was perhaps 40, was well dressed in a neat brown traveling suit and wore a tight-fitting hat that hid her eyes. She was staking recklessly on varlous single numbers, risking @ PRINCIPAL GAMING ROOM (PU to Reap an Easy | hundred francs and sometimes twice | that amount at a time. When I first noticed her she had before her a large | pile of 10-franc bronze pieces and quite | a number of red composition disks | worth 20 francs and mother-of-pearl | 500-franc plaques. Presently she placed her last five counters upon the cloth. The wheel spun, and the rake of the | croupier drew them in. She arose | from the table. As she did so she opened her handbag and picked out something. | I got a glimpse of a round white tablet II)(‘L\'l‘(‘e‘n her fingers in the moment be- fore she passed it into her mouth. But 11 was not the only one whose eyes fastened upon her. Hardly had her hand dropped from her lips when one of the lackeys, gorgeous in a green vel- vet coat, who patrol the rooms, was upon her. As he seized her arm, a croupler, rising from the table, caught | her other. A third guardian appeared | apparently out of the empty air. Be- tween them they began pushing the woman rapidly toward the outer door- wa | “What's the matter? What are you | doing?” She expostulated. | But as they continued in silence to| hurry her, she became quiet, evidently | hating to_draw any more attention to | herself, People absorbed in gambling are not easily distracted, however. Not | 50 long ago & man shot himself in the | | gaming room, and was removed with- | out. the play even being interrupted. So the woman was hardly through the entrance door when she was for- gotten by all the gathering except my- self. s the man seized her, I turned | and fdllowed close enough to see her escorted up the stairway at the end of the foyer which leads to the private rcoms of the administration. I did not dare to go up there. I dropped into a chair at the foot of the stairs and pon- dered what to do. Here was a story! I knew that the greatest fear of the Casino officlals was the suicide of a visitor. They were always on the look- out to prevent it; were always pre- pared. I guessed to what length they would go to hush up the facts of such happenings reaching the press of the world. What would they do with this woman with the sinister white tablet already in her system? But whether they saved her or she died, I knew they would not give me any facts, or any other person of the news gathering clan. The only stories the publicity department of Monte Carlo gives out freely are exaggerated tales of large winnings made by visitors, which, pub- lished in thousands of newspapers, is the finest bait in the world to draw hopeful gamblers to come and lose their So I sat on rather hopelessly wi a plan. After a few minutes the flun! in the long green velvet coat and the croupier came down the stairs with calm, unconcerned faces. I let them pass, these callous minions, inured to tragedy, knowing how useless it was to question men whose life-jobs depended upon a close mouth. I was just about to give up the mat- ter as hopeless when my astonished eyes beheld descending the stairs the lady in the neat brown traveling sui whom I had just been picturing as dead and smuggled away to the secret ceme- tery at Monte Carlo. I rose and met her as she turned to leave. Perhaps be- cause she was so angry or because sh was all_alone here and so_the mor filled with desire to tell her troubies t some one, she gladly consented to tali to me. Seated in the rotunda of her hote the de la Paix, in the lower town shc told me her story. She had come from a Midwestern American city where until a year ago her husband had kep! a stationery store. All her life she had wanted to travel. One of the places she most_desired to see was Monte Carlo. So shortly after her husband's deat’ she had come here. “When I got up from the table and those men grabbed me I was too astonished for a moment to say any- thing. Then I started to protest, but decided it was better not to create a scene. When they got me upstairs they rushed me into a room, and the next thing I faced was two men entering with a stomach pump. They tried tc put the tube down my throat, but I fought like a cat, and, belleve me, I talked as hard as I struggled. Wait . . . hold on . . . let me explain I sald. Lucky for me one of them understood English perfectly and the: listened. But it took me all my time to convince them that the white tablet I had taken was only a headache wafer. Headache wafer! Good night! cried, just as surprised as they wi “Why, of course, did you, too, think I had taken poison?” Rather sheepishly I admitted I had “You see,” she continued, “I'm subject to headaches. And perhaps the exci ment of gambling helped to bring on a terrible one. I always carry special tablets with me, and so I took it without for a minute thinking how it might appear. This is my first night at th~ table. I decided to play a hundred dollars’ worth of counters for the ex- perience, and didn’t care about the loss after looking forward to such a night for years. I won at first. Probably mj play appeared to you very reckless. We laughed. Presenfly I went ouf into the soft, warm darkness, and very pleased with myself walked to my hotel Many J)egyle have come to Monte Carlo and witnessed or personally suf- fered tragedy. But I venture few of a'l the countless visitors have been present- ed in a single night with a “front seat" at two such rare comedies in succession money. JBLIC) OF MONTE CARLO CASI as I was, MAD MUSIC—A Story of True and False Romance Strangely Mixed BY ISABEL ST ORCING herself to wash®@nd dry carefully the breakfast china; hurriedly smoothing the covers on the chaste twin beds; straightening up the living room litter from Dick's quiet-evening-at- home sprawling—Verna somehow held her nervous turbulence in check until she had stumbled through the beggars- “weed patch of duties that clutched de- tainingly at her from every hand. Then she stepped out on the brick terrace and looked with perturbed eyes at San Diego Bay, blue, quiet and sparkling. Two long, white navy ships were steaming trimly toward the sea, and their jaunty independence made Verna wince as she recalled the dark- ened hulks that crept furtively away from another harbor years before, loaded with more adventuring fearful gouls than had ever been brought back Bgain. Had Dick forgotten it all so quickly? fromorrow—Armistice day—to be passed in casual quietude at home? Were there never to be any more eager days of re- membrance for them? A moment’s hesitation, a quick de- cision. Hastily locking the house, an abstracted concession to Dick's sense of law and order, she ran across the gar- den, through the rustic gate and up old Loma's hillside. | Hatless, breathless she fled—away | from the placid waters of the bay, from | the monotonous repetition of homely tasks; away from everything that was ‘narrowing life to a shuttlelike existence, mere weaving to and fro to a dull| drab pattern Up, up, over the pathway so familiar fo her oft rebellious feet, now winding | mmong clumps of mesquite and verba | santa, now cleaving straightly through, siretches of dusty brown barrenness. | Finally the wild buckwheat on the hill- | top, a scramble down the windward | side, and the Pacific spread vast and limitless before her. i With a sigh of contentment she sank €0 her knees, then childishly back on { her heels, watching delightedly the con- | tinuous surge and swell that paradoxi- cally was soothing to her restive spirit “I could sing!” she challenged the galty November wind that tore her hair from the marshaled order of the hair- dresser's marcel and twisted it into a thousand wayward curls of its own. “I could sing to all your mad music!” y she parodied . thou western wind! not half so cold as a— Thou 'art husband's indifference!” “So that's why you come here,” com- mented some one from just below her, *to cast your discontent into the teeth of the wind.” ok &k \'ERNA ceased trilling to regard with ' disapproval the intruder, who was risking his neck to draw himself to her own particular ledge. Without invita- tion he sat down beside her and re- EWART WAY. consciousness he betrayed it by not a wince, but admitted it shamelessly. “Every time you came. I saw you here last week, and the week before that—— ®ay, do you always wear green?” “Mostly.” The morning’s wild caprice unexpectedly veered to respond that much. “It's my hair, you know. When you have red hair there isn't much choice in colors.” He scrutinized her critically. “It's not red,” he contradicted. “I have some old copper candlesticks on my mantel, and when the firelight shines on them they're just the color of your hair. Your eyes are like them in the shadow.” She flushed helplessly at his com- pliment that had yet a subtle hint of mockery. Not in all her 32 years had she Jearned to use the snappy comeback. He settled back with such an air of permanence that she—de- termined not to abdicate her pre- empted place to this interloper—felt powerless to dislodge him. Uneasily re- sentful of this unsought companioning, she asked petulantly: “Who are you? Where did you come from, anyway?” “I'm an artist from the colony over yonder,” he answered without shifting as much as an eyeglance toward her, vet making her feel as though he were Jaughing at <her. “I'm an_unsuccess- ful portrait painter—I'm Reuel Ger- ard.” He offered the name as sufficient explanation. She puckered her thoughtful concentration. g “I know about you,” she accused at last. “You paint dreadful pictures! You did Helen Miles last year—very, badly. They won't even hang it. Why —why—she looks like & shrew!” He sat up angrily. “It wasn't terrible! picture. She is a shrew! I painted her like that.” “Well, perhaps she is—a trifle,” con. ceded Verna after a moment’s thought- ful consideration, “but still, she's a very beautiful woman.” “Well. that's the ftrouble with me,’| he explained wearilys “I can't paint but what I see, and I usually see too ‘The forehead in It was a good That's why much. Always been like that. queer little quirks catch my eye. thought the war would take it out of me, but I guess I didn’t get into it far enough. I returned worse than I was | “I know, but it'’s no use. I start out trying to be serious and I end in caricature. Yet I take my work too seriously to be a good cartoonist.” “Every one has some good traits to balance queer ones. There is always a little beauty, even in ugliness.” “I realize that, and I've always meant to stress the better part, but whea I {begin to study a person things rise to |the surface. I have talent. I think, iperhaps even more than mere talent, moved his cap. “Do you know,” he went on com- anionably, “I'm glad to find .out, for g'e been wondering about you—why ¥ou come here to this lonely place.” “You've been watching me?” A I her indguant words cut intd his but I'm 35 and a failure and"—he | shrugged hopele: T shall go on to the end of my days h~'nq a failure— excent. “perhaps, i Ic “Are you always successful in love?” she asked. “Always,” he boasted complacently. She straightened up indignantly. “And when they struggle it's all the more interesting,” was his impudent, meaning conclusion. * ok ok X A HAZY silence hovered above the muffied drumbeats of the sea, dragging its long moments impercep- tibly before the two on the ledge: a si- lence so restful that Verna—uneasily aware that she should be leaving—was even regretful when Gerard scattered 1t with the command. “Tell me about you w. What makes you so discontented?’ “I'm not,” she denied. “At least, not- very.” “Then why do you come here?” “Because I like to be alone.” “Your husband drives you here,” he stated calmly. “Dick? Why, he doesn't even know this place exists!” “Well, it’s because of him U run away to here. Didn’t I hear you chirp it to the wind?” be triumphed. “What's the matter, with him?” “He's a good husband,” she defended stanchly, He is! Every one knows he is. And I'm not a dissatisfied wife. I'll have you know. I'm not!" she reiterat- ed in the face of his silence. With one hand he was erecting a miniature house of sumac twigs and, intent upon his task, but he looked up at her determined denial. “No, I should say that you were an unsatisfied wife.” “It's the same thing!” “Yes?” was his cryptic querry as he searched for a proper sized twig to complete the cabin wall. Verna absently contemplated his building for a time, then continued, more to sound bearings for herself than to enlighten him. “It's just that we’re different, Dick and I In everything. He loves safety and stability and the same things over and over. Old books he's read before; old furniture, even old clothes. And I—" “You love adventure and wander- ing and crave new experiences,” fin- ished Gerard, knocking down his pains- takingly built house. “And he doesn't understand you and probably doesn't ‘He doesn't know that he should try. He thinks I'm contented with his kind of life. But it's all so—so empty.” “Exactly. Your life isn’t full enough. You're unsatisfied.” “Unsatisfied,” she repeated thought- fully. “Yes, perhaps that is it. Noth- ing fust as I want it, yet I can't say much. Dick is much like a child— gets hurt easily—and he was hurt so badly back there in the war. I don't mean in his body, but in himself. It did something to him—to his youth. Crushed it, in a way. I can't bear to do anything more to hurt him, so I let things go. They are all little things, you know. If he'd really do something big I'd feel better about it, but they're all tiny annoyances. Like wanting to follow a serial through at the movies —or wearing such bright-colored paia- mas. And wanting to spend -~ nu'~t day tomorrow intaed of ¢ 3 ME IN _HIS ARMS “WHEN WE CAME TO MY HOME—IT WAS DAR LA o~ K—HE CAUGHT AND KIS! T Armistice day with the rest. We quar- reled over that this morning. Or things like coming home from a glorious con- cert—why, 1 get intoxicated on music! I want to come home and dance!” “And he comes home yawning and wants to go to bed so that he won't oversleep in the morning.” “That’s just it,” she nodded solemn- ly. “All things like that. I go along | until too many of them have piled up and I feel desperate, and then I come here where nothing seems to matter.” “Nothing does matter here,” he as- sured her cozily, and reached for her hand. When she withdrew it, frown- ing, 'he only la:ghed. * * - the distance wavered the TAR in dus” ~moke pattern of some out- bound 0; nearer, a small fishing craft tossing wearily toward the har- bor narrows. A flock of sandpipers fed along the shore, and a lone pelican rose in low flight; but above all this evi- dence of life shimmered a mist of un- reality. Verna seemed unreal to her- self, yet annoyingly aware of this man beside her. Strangely, she was carried back 10 years to Paris, to the wild, eager crowds and the mad glowing music of the first Armistice day. She started when Gerard broke the silence again. “What you need,” he suggested lightly; “is romance—romance with a capital Rl I bet you were married awfully young.” ‘I was 22" “A mere child! into marriage with Yoy just blundered first man you liked, and your courtship was probably as thrilling as warmed-over coffee.” “It was an anxious one at least. Dick was in France three years, and I only saw him twice in all that time.” “And when he came home,” Gerard continued, “he wanted only peace, and you were left high and dry with a hun- ger for the romance you never had.” “I did have it,” she told him defen- sively, “too mamch of one. It—it stands between Dick and me sometimes!” He sat up and looked her over quiz- zicall, " he asked unbelievingly. “With those ey My dear, not a 16-year-old flapper today but has more secrets hid- den in her eyes than you have!” “I have had mine”- she repeated. “perhaps it's t00 long ago to show now —it was back in Paris on the day the war ended.” “In France?” he asked surprised. “Yes.” she nodded. “I was over all that last year—entertaining, making coffee, writing letters—just filling in where I could.” “The girls were wonderful then— their part in the war has never been lauded enough.” “We were living real lives, at least. I was near the front just before the end, when everything was furiously ac- tive. More nurses were desperately needed, and I went in. Days and nights of it—blood and ecther—moans and curses and prayers. I—I don't like to think of it very often.” “You saw more of it than I did,” he remarked half regretfully. “I was far back most of the time, and never right up at the front.” “I was sick after a while. I couldn't eat, you see, and there was no chance to sleep . . . and they sent me back to Paris on sick leave. I was there when peace came.” “So was I!” he exclaimed interested- ly. “Gosh, do you remember the crowds? Every one wild with joy and hugging everybody else? And the wine? I had a bad head for a week,” he con- cluded ruefully in remembrance. “I remember the crowds,” she return- ed slowly, “and the joy that was most- ly relief . . and the ones who had lost and wouldn't let their grief cloud the happiness of others. And that night ++. it was then I met—that I met him.” * Ah, here comes the ro- HE “WE were all emotionally unstrung,” Verna went on, not knowing nor trying to analyze why she was taking this secret from her heart and spread- ing it out to the gaze of this stranger. “As you say, every one rejoiced witn every one else, and there were no for- malities that night. I was convalescent then and boarding with a crippled vollu and his young wife. I went with them to the celebration, but I grew tired, for I was still quite weak and ill. I started for home alone—it wasn't far—but I had stayed too long and I grew faint. ‘There was an American—he must have noticed my giddiness, for he took my arm. I know it sounds silly now—un- believable—but when he put his arm around me—to steady me—I was glad.” She stopped a moment, then faltered on. “When we came to my house—it was dark—he caught me in his arms and kissed me, kissed me as I had nev- er before or never again been kissed— and still I was glad. He had to go fin- ally, and I clung to him and asked him if he was coming back. It seemad as though I must know that nothing mat- tered then except to know! He said he was coming back for me the next day. It all seemed so right, so ordained to be, that I let him go without asking his name or telling him mine. We seemed to understand without words T and we were both a little mad, I nle” “And when the next day came—" prompted Gerard. “I was away,” she answered simply. “When reason returned that night I realized that I must go before he came. There was Dick. I was engaged to him and he needed me. He was in a hos- pital then ...and I loved him. I did!” she repeated stanchly. “Then why the fuss? If you got the one 'you wanted?" From the blue distance she sought the words that would give adequate ex- planation, “Sometimes I think that to each one of us is given a single chance to have the best. If we refuse to reach out and take it, then it may be that we have to limp through life with the second st. . . . I know Dick's value, . . . but at times when, life seems so hum- drum, I think about him and wonder what life would be like now if I had g:en brave enough to wait for him that | o nd he didn't follow you up?” “He couldn't. I made the people promise never to tell where I went or my name. I went right to Dick at the hospital: and we were married there the next week. “Pshaw!” exclaimed Gerard disap- ‘that was no romance at all. cried the artist at last. “Wouldn't she have made me a wonderfal wife? Her coat was blue, see? And she was all bundled up in this scarf—sort of a red- dish striped one. Couldn't see a thing of her face but a couple of great big eyes. And this funny old gargoyle was the door knocker at her house. Even if I was half seas over, I noted that,” he added with the pride of craft. He handed her the cleverly grotesque sketch of a wide-eyed girl clinging ludicrously to a shadowy doughboy. Verna took it idly, but as she gazed her body grew taut. She closed her eyes, then opened them to look again. “She was—like that?” “Like that, as much as I saw of her,” he laughed. “And I guess she didn't see much more of me, come to think of It was dark,” nodded Verna. “I wasn’t as lucky as the fellow that discovered you—and lost you again. I wouldn't have let you go,” he whispered boldly, leaning nearer. “And now that it has been my turn to find you"—— Verna stood up, her composure com- pletely regained. “I am going away she finished mockingly. “Back to my home—and my own real romance!” Once out of his sight, she began to run—over the wild buckwheat on the hilltop, down the path made by her stupid, rebellious feet; through clumps of dry sumac, across stretches of dusty brown barrenness; away from the mad music of the ocean! Laughing, yet humiliated, she hurried; back to the shimmering blue peace of the bay; to the blessedly familiar home tasks. Back to Dick and his sturdy quh:tude, his generous misunderstand- ing! pointedly I knew from your eyes—— You need some one to teach you what romance really is. Why, that fellow probably never showed up again. There were lots of sidewalk friendships that night. I had two or three myself. Gosh! I can faintly remember one even yet—she came before I faded out completely. She gave me a look and I grabbed her up, but I was still sober enough to shake her off when we got to her house. I got off with a kiss or two, but she begged me to come back. You know how it was. So many of their men had been killed off that the girls were crazy jfor American husbands to save them ifrom horrible spinsterhood.” “T didn’t notice that.” “Didn't you?” he returned easily. { “Well, it was a fact. But me go back to that girl> Why, she was built like a rail, and all eyes! I made a sketch of her afterward—it's a wow! Here, I'll show you what she looked like,” and he took from his pocket a small note- book and pencil. * oK K K S he worked with quick, even strokes Verna sat thoughfully quiescent. Telling the story had suddenly crystal- lized the poignancy lhit she had kept s0 long under control. Even her uneasy conscience, protesting at the verbal dis- loyalty to Dick, could not stifie the yearning for romance that might have been hers. The sordid recital of Gerard'’s | flirtations had not dimmed the luster of her own recollgetions. “Here she sea-mald In green!” Next week she would take from her battered little overseas trunk and send to the Salvation Army the old blue coat and reddish striped scarf she had treas- ured so foolishly these past 10 years— had kept just because she chanced to wear them that first Armistice night when she went out through the door with the funny gargoyle knocker and in the mad crowds had found Romance! ‘THE END. i BRIV 7 eather Prophets. CERTAIN creatures anticipate changes in the weather and indicate their foreknowledge by strange actions. They seem to feel uneasy, and then take necessary precautions. When they foresee bad weather, bees go out very early in the morning, keep near their hives, return suddenly with partial loads of nectar and become easily irri- tated, attacking those who approach. ‘The garden spider turns its head toward the interior of its hole and strengthens its web with numerous extra threads. Ducks raise themselves on their toes, make & great outcry and seem to be excited. Roosters crow at evening, or at other unaccustomed times. Oxen raise their muazzles into the air, as if to sniff the wind, and then huddle ‘o~ gether. The mule ap) sad, the marmot whistles, and the fox and the jackal whine. Ants stop work and retire to their underground gailori-s. Swallows skim close to the ground and snails come-from their holes.