Evening Star Newspaper, March 22, 1931, Page 84

r'12' ——— THE SUNDAY STAR, WASH THE TRIANGLE —A Story ofa G What Was Her Decision? - And How Did She Solve Her Problem ? These Ques- tions Are Not Answered Until the Reader May Have Formed an Opinion---but It I an Unusual Bit of Fiction From a Well Knozw Wiriter. ILLUSTRATED BY HUBERT MATHIEU. ONNIE came down o breakfast breath- less and hurried. She was late and the parents had medieval ideas about breakfast; breakfast, thought they in their odd way, had something to do with moral fiber. They were all there, Betty and Kathleen, even Ken. Everybody said hello, except Ken, who said good afternoon, thinking as usual that that was a really good cra¢k. But nobody scoided. It was such a gay June morning, the sun came dancing in from the garden in such light, happy fashion, that scolding a girl for being late to breakfast would have been posi- tively crude. But Connie did wonder what they would think if they knew that under her frock, pinned securely on the one garment which she wore in the name of decency, was Gerald Giddings’ fraternity pin. Fraternity pins were not allowed in this family unless you were a fiancee, duly accredited, so, if you had one, the thing to do was simply wear it underneath and say nothing. The iess you tell parents the better off they are, anyway. Ken was holding forth on the merits of a certain racing car that could be had for the laughable sum of $400, and father was having fun snorting. “But gee, father, it’s such a bargain!” pro- tested Ken. “When I was a boy,” said father, “I used the trolley and even my legs once in a while.” But the family merriment submerged him completely. A trolley car! Father certainly was a riot. B!.'I'I'Y gulped a last cup of coffee and hur- ried off to catch a train to town. Betty had gone high-minded this year; she was work- ing in a settlement house on Ninth avenue, all because she was engaged to a divinity student. “How’s the Greek' god?” asked Kathleen. Kathleen was always disrespectful about Con- nie’s young man. She was the beauty of the family, she lived within a solid massed circle of love-crazed and desperate males, and she thought because she was 22 and Connie was 18 that Connie’s affairs were entirely unimportant. *“He'’s grand, thanks. “She’s crazy about him,” offered Ken. “Well, he sure is a handsome dog,” said Kathleen. “Such shoulders, my dears! And such a profile!” “Oh, shut up,” said Connie. “Which one,” asked her father, “is the Greek god?” “Jay Giddings’ boy, papa,” simpered Kathleen in her best burlesque manner. “You know old Jay Giddings, the wizard of Wall Street. It's his son—Gerald. And listen, pa, what do you suppose this rich, comely, clean-living hero has gone and done? He has taken a fancy to our little Constance, our baby, our dove, and they say—I don't know, but they scy he wants to marry the girl and make a fine lady of her.” “This family,” sald Connie reflectively, “is simply pitiful when it tries to be funny.” “Check,” said Ken. “Double check,” said father. “But, dearies,” began Kathleen again, “this Is no joke—-." “Oh, Kathleen,” said Mrs. Leacroft, wearily, “do be still. Pinish your breakfasts, all of you, and clear out.” “Listen, father,” began Ken, “can I have the car tonight?” “No,” said father, “your mother and I—it may be very droll of us—but we don’t choose to walk the four miles to the club tonight.” “Oh, gosh. Well, what about the roadster?” “Ive spoken for that,” said Connie. ~ “What?” cried Kathleen. “Why, Gerald Gid- @ings has a whole fleet of high-powered——-." “Gerald is going to New York today, if X must explain,” replied Connie icily, “and Eddie is coming out.” “Eddie Yackey, the boy with the college-yell name?” asked Ken. “Eddie ' Yackey,” repeated Connie firmly. “And he hasn’t any car and we're going to use the roadster and go somewhere to dinner, and you, Kenneth darling, can take your little red- headed, dish-faced queen out in a public taxi, or as father suggests, on a trolley.” “Eddie-Yackey - Eddie - Yackey - Yack - Yack- Yack—" chanted Ken. “Will you get up and go some place?” cried Mrs. Leacroft then, suddenly gone wild. The thing that Connie really wondered about was whether she wanted to marry Gerald or not. Gerald was thrilling, he was good-looking, he danced like an angel from heaven, he was darling sweet, and she had his fraternity pin, but did she want to be engaged to him? “What's Eddie Yackey doing these days?” asked her mother later in the day. “I haven't seen him for ages.” “He’s working on a newspaper in New York.” “Have you seen him lately?¥ “Oh, yes; once or fwice, around and about.” “He’s a funny boy,” mused Mrs. Leacroft. “His mo‘her was awfully nice. They've had such a struggle, that family,” ‘“He’s a nut,” stated Connie. “But a nut is better than nothing?” asked Mrs. Leacroft, smiling. “What would you do, Connie, if some night would roll around and you didn’t have a boy coming?” L 4 “Oh, mother, don’t be silly!” CONNIE sat across from Eddie at a little green-varnished table at the Old Mill Pond Tea Room in the dying light of the dinner hour. It was a poetic time, Connie’s favorite hour of the day, and she thought longingly of Gerald and the gentle, urgent things-he would be saying if he were here, for Gerald, like her, was moved by places and times of day. But what, in this lovely moment, was Eddie Yackey doing? He was guzzling chocolate marshmallow cake and shouting at her that he was going to be a great man. She was bored, and slightly piqued. But she tried to listen. He was, he told her, saving his money like a miser. In three more years, when he was 24, he would have enough to retire from the news- paper business to write. Novels, he added, with- ous being asked. “And I'm going to be a darn fine little novelist, t0o,” said he. “Are you, Eddie?” Connie was trying hard to be indulgent, but he was very irksome, Ed- die. In the first place, his appearance. Long, shambling, scraggy, sharp and thin as a rake, light, colorless, rough hair. And what really offended her, his hands were slightly grimy; he hadn’t had the grace to shave, and his hair Wwas mussy. Well, of course, Eddie simply wasn’t a gentle- man. Her mother had said his mother had been nice, but certainly she hadn't reared her son very successfully, however nice she had been. He was cocky, he was harsh, mannerless, inconsiderate and, she decided now, selfish to the bone. She put down her coffee cup. 7This was a nice evening, this was. Darn it! But maybe things would look up. No boy, not even Eddie, could talk about writing novels all night. But she didn't know Eddie. They got up from the tabl?, she struggling with her own coat until Eddie finally leaned over carelessly and gave it a tug for her; they got into the car; Eddie started off with a jerk; they arrived home and sat cn the porch until 11 o’clock; and Ed- die never once stopped talking about himself and newspaper work and what he was going to do to startle the literary world. Connie yawned and groaned inwardly and finally said good night. Gosh, what a night! ‘The next morning Eddie called up. “Good heavens, where are you?” she asked. “I've got an assignment to cover the air meet at Oyster Cove. Meet me there,” said he. “I'm sorry——>"" “Well, then, I'll get a bus or something and come over to your place tonight after I'm through.” “But—." “Have you got a date?” “Uh—no.” “Then I'll be over. If you know any cheap place, we can go and dance.” “There’s dancing at the club. I could take you there,” she said half-heartedly. “All right,” he said carelessly, “I'll be there about 8. ’'Bye.” “Good night!” Connie raged, as she hung up. “Well, that's what I get for being a yes-girl.” Eddie arrived dusty and rumpled, his face hagard from fatigue. Connie was dismayed. A creature like that simply wasn't eligible even for the informal Summer dancing of the Blue Val- ley Country Club. “Can’t I wash up?” he asked. Mutely she led him to a vast and perfect b.ux room. He reappeared fresher, but still woefully unpressed. Kathleen came onto the porch with her young man of the evening. “Come on, you kids, we'll give you a lift. Hello, Eddie. This is John Gerard.” Eddie, scowling, muttered “Hello,” shook hands briefly, and he and Connie got into the back seat of the car. Eddie told Connie all about the air meet and the really masterly story he had sent in for the last edition. She mur- mered dutifully. Kathleen kept looking back wickedly. It was awful. And, of course, Eddie couldn't dance. He hopped, he loped, he galloped, he swung her around crazily, and then he would shout, /ool that he was: “Gee, this is great, isn't it?” T!—m “crowd,” Jane and Roger and Herb and Lucilie and the rest, was there in its usual corner of the big wide piazza. Connie steered He was standing alone in a doorway, a long, rumpled figure. He looked Eddie over to them, flung him at them, and danced off with Herb. ‘Where'd you get Eddie?” asked Herb. “Oh, he just turned up.” “Gee, you oughta seen yourself dancing.” She stiffened a little at that: “Oh, he wasn't s0 bad.” “I see,” said Herb. *’Scuse it, please.” " Then she saw him. He was standing alone in a doorway, a long, lounging, rumpled figure. He looked ghastly tired, he looked young and poor and incredibly lonely. “Oh, gee,” she said, “there’s Eddie. Let’s go over and gather him in.” “Why aren’t you dancing?” she asked Eddie. “Don’t want to dance with anybody but you." he answered. “That let's me out,” said Herb, and with a bow was gone. “Do you want to dance or shall we go some- wherz and sit?” asked Connie. “Go somewhere and sit if you want to.” “You like that Herb guy?” he asked her. “Herb? Heavens, no. He's Lucille’s boy wonder.” “Oh. Well, who do you like?” “Me?” “Yeah, you. ’Cause if I've got to beat some- body’s time, I want to know who it is.” “Eddie!” “I want to marry you, and I'm going to if I can,” said Eddie. “Eddie Yackey! And don't I have anything to say about it?” “No, not much. ’'Course I want you to love me, but you would if you knew how much I love you. Maybe it's superstitious, but I be- lieve that if somebody loves enough, the other fellow just naturally will love back.” “Oh, Eddie.” “So I want you to play fair with me and tell me who the other guy is.” “It's Gerald Giddings.” “Who'’s he? Oh, yes. Well, are you crazy about him?” “Well, sort of.” “You aren’t engaged, are you?” “I'm not sure. I've got his pin.” “Where is it? I didn't see it “I wear it”"—she hesitated and looked uway -—‘“on my—underneath, you know.” “Underneath what?” “My dress, of course.” “On your underwear?” he asked. Underwear. He would say that. “Yes.” “Well, will you do me a.favor? Will you stop wearing it?” “No, I can't do that, Eddie. I like Gerald.” “All right. Where is this bird now?” “He's away just for a day or two.” Gerald came back on Saturday, and was at Connie’s in half an hour, “So beautiful,” he said, “so darling. Faith- ful to me?” “y_yes.” “I heard rumors.” ‘“Well, Eddie Yackey was around.” “Like me better?” “Maybe.” ‘Then his face was deeply grave. “I do love you, Connie. You're awful darn sweet.” “You're rather sweet yourself, you know.” ‘Then she had to break the bad news. Eddie was coming out tonight. “Oh, gosh!” “I know. It's awful. I'm terribly sorry.” ERALD stayed all afternoon, and when he left, she almost hated Eddie. But not quite, for she kept remembering him standing alone in the doorway. The Leacroft house was rather full that evening of the wooing and the wooed. “Well” said Connie, “there’s still a pantry left. Or what about the attic?” They finally went out and sat in & car, parked in the side driveway. Eddie had brought her*a present. “What is it?” asked Connie. “It's my high school pin. I dido’t have any- thing else. I had to get it out-of hock. I got 80 cents for it once when I was broke.” She touched the humble little ‘old shield with a gentle finger. “Oh,” she said. “Will you wear it? Alongside the other? She meant to refuse, of course, but Eddie’s| face, strained and wistful, smiote her, “It won’t do any harm,” he said. “Bddie,” she said suddenly, “we must get this straight. Are you really serious about all this?” “Am I serious?” he repeated dully. “Well, what do you think?” “Oh, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but I mean—well, I've told you I'm crazy about Gerald, and I honestly think I'm going to marry him. Hadn't you better forget me?” “I couldn't ever forget you,” said Eddie. #I see. . . . Well, but Eddie, how can yo even think of being married when you want to save your money and write books?” ,“I want both. I want to marry you and I want to write books. I don't believe that a man’s work ought to keep him from his love and I don’t believe that a man’'s love ought to interfere with his work.” “I think that's rather fine,” said Connie slowly. “And I think that it might be fun, if you loved a man, to share his poverty, and then, maybe, his success. You'd have to be rather” decent and sporting.” “You are decent and sporting,” said Eddie. *Gosh, you're a swell kid, Connie!” She felt tears coming. “All right, I'll wear the pin, Eddie.” In a week Connie's affairs were receiving full family publicity. Gerald came one night, whizzing up the drive in his own car; Eddie came the next, cindery and hot after his jaunt on the railroad. Tuesdays, Eddie’s day off, he came early and stayed late. He played tennis and danced miserably, he didn’t like to swim, he was not at all at ease with Con- pie’s light-hearted young friends. Connie liked Eddie more all the time and in some ways less all the time. His untidiness, his blunt manners, his carelessness still shocked and displeased her. But his cockiness she grew to understand. He believed in himself and he didn't care who knew it. He had exactly two ideas in his young head, his work and Connie, And as she liked Eddie more and less her liking for Gerry both increased and dimin- ishéd. But socmehow Gerry seemed a little worthless compared to Eddie. He had never known anything but ease and luxury. July went by. The two youths were par- to which she told her sisters and brother they might each invite one guest. Connie invited Eddie because Gerald had gone motoring with his family for a week. ‘The party was the grand affair of the entire year to Connie. She stood in the drawing room, with her mother and Kathleen. kept watching the door. Eddie and this was a grand party, but he & dear. E And FEddis did not come. when the guests trcoped out to the little tables, Eddie was not there. P Everybody was painfully kind all evenfng. But they all knew: Eddie Yackey, that cone eeited clown, had ditched Connie Leacroft. nerve burned with hot, indignant fury. But she was asleep when somebody rapped on the door. “Miss Constance! Telephone.” She rolled out sleepily. It was Eddie, of ecourse. And it was 7 o'clock in the morning. “Connie!” . “Eddie, I don’t want to talk to you.” “Wait a minute!” “And please don’t telephone again at such an ungodly hour.,” And she hung up. -