Evening Star Newspaper, January 8, 1933, Page 70

THY SUNDAY STAR, WASHIN EXHIBIT A By Mary Daugherty One Diamond Bracelet, Which Was Incriminating Evidence for a Breach of Promise Suit—and Nancy Re- turned to Town—One of The Star Magazine’s First-Run Stories. ILL five then, Saint.” II Nency put down the French phere end reached for her desk pad. Funny methodical Nancy, as thcugh she could forget it. P But there was a solt little smile on her lips. Lucky she had her private office! “Tea, Saint, Van Buren Hotel, 5 p.m.” She almost added “engagement ring” Of course, that was what he wanted. Saint was so conventional, and ait his proposal last night—Nzancy smiled again at thai memory. She would have expected him to choose come one’s garden, or at lcast Carl Schurz Park very late ot night, with the red and green lights on the river. As a matter of fact, she had not really expected Saint to propose at all. Most weuld-be bachelors of 30 are only young men who are nol married yet. St. Lawrence Vail, though, was convincing in the role. " But imagine, Nancy’s thoughts ran on as she drew innumerable cartwheels on the blank copy sheet headed “Susskind's Sweetheart Choco- lates”-—imagine his popping the conventional question in Junius’, of all possible night clubs. “Tomcrrow?” he had added on Nancy's en- thusiastic acceptance. “Oh, I couldn't possibly, Saint. Not before three weeks, anyway. I have that candy ac- count; and the Italian Hotel's account, both national, and several local cnes, and I'll have to do loads of copy on all of them before I can go away.” Even in her new warm happiness she had noted Saint’s strange depression. “Of course, if you say so, Sweet, but I don't like engagements.” Nancy adored cngagements. HE dreamed through the rest of the after- noon—=Saint was so sophisticated and charming, and awfully simple really, especially considering how prosperous he was, and so sweet_about her work, and so handsome on a horse and—at a quarter of five she tossed into the wastebasket six pages of cactwheels, bright- ened her red lips, pulled the little red hat over her dark curls, and grirmed at her sparkling brown-eyed reflection. “A blind man could see that you're in love, idiot.” 5 Szint, his coat and hat checked, was waiting in the Van Buven lobby. He was one of those big, blend youths, not really good-looking at all, whose crinkling blue-eyed smiles are so sympathetic that no girl knows—or cares— whether they're good-looking or not. Nancy noticed at once that he was curiously subdued. H “Oh, are we staying here? I supposed you meant cocktails.” “No, I said tea.” A bad case of cold feet, Nancy diagnosed, se- lecting Scotch scones and Oolong. She waited breathlessly for the ring. She didn't really care for anything so conventional as a diamond solitaire, herself, but she knew Saint would believe in that sort of thing. And then it slowly dawned on her that this small talk was not for the waiter, but for her; that they were dancing not to warm his cold feet, so to speak, but to prevent her referring to the previous evening. Nancy was deeply hurt. In the middle of a dance she glanced at her watch—Nancy who never carei what time it was when she was with Saint. “Oh, I'll have to hurry. I'm expecting Judith Brooke for dinner.” He put her in his roadster, still chatting desperately about golf and the market. Nancy felt like a volcano about to erupt— like a glacier about to melt—Ilike a very proud, hurt little girl about to burst into tears. “Let me get home first, please let me get home first,” she said to herself over and over, studying the treffic lights. “Den’t get out,” she burst forth at her apart- ment house door. “Wait, I have something for you.” He drew a large box from the car pocket—much too large for a ring. He gave her the box, pressed hard one small brown han!. “My love to Judith. Three weeks, Sweet- heart.” A sheepish smil?, and he was gone. Inside, Nancy tussed a light greeting to the maid and dashed to her bed room. Her fingers fumbled so at the ribbon she could hardly open the package. At length she tore away the paper and disclosed—a box of Susskind's Sweetheart Chocolates! Her own account. “And they say advertising doesn’t pay.” T was a depressed and worried little copy- writer who opened the door to Judith Brooke. Judith, schoolgirl friend of both their mothers, had introduced Saint to Nancy. She was very smart, an incredible 45 with a girl's zest for life. “Oh, I had tea with St. Lawrence Vail. He sent his love,” Nancy said over the coffee cups, as she produced the chocolates. “Sweetheart chocolates from Saint? How daring of him. Heavens, he must have pro- posed at last.” “How did you know? But don't tell any one.” “Oh, Saint had a bad shock five years ago, when he was 25. Don’t you remembez? The tabloics were full of it.” Judith paused to remember Nancy five years ago—a gallant curly-headed little David, arriv- ing at 19 to take on the Goliath of the me- tropolis. “I don't read the tabloids.” “Well, I do, and so did Saint in those days, I guess. It was really awfully amusing. ‘Young St. Lawrence bacly burned,’ they said. ‘Chorine sues St. Lawrence Vail for breach of promise. Millionaire clubman’s letter read to court.’— Saint never meant to marry the girl, of course, but he wrote her a very romantic letter, and a romantic jury gave her $50,000. Poor Saint! Hez's been telling me for years that he'd never marry, but just lately he’s changed it. Says he’ll never get engaged. He' wanted to marry, you right away, didn't he?” “But how could I, Judith?"” “I know, darling i The maid, black and benevolent, brought Nancy a box of flowers. It was roses, long- stemmed, deep-red ones. Nancy searched in vain for a card. Judith chuckled. “St. Lawrence, once burned, refuses to turn other side! He told me once would never give another girl grounds for breach of promise. Tell me, did he ever write you a letter?” U. 8. Experts Locaic Huge Rotenone Source HE careful observaiion and research work of experts of the Department of Agriculture have opened up a source of supply within the United States of one of the most valuable insec- ticides now in use, an insecticide formerly ob- tained only from the roots of the derrie plant of the East Indies and the roots of the cubz of South America. The poison is known as rotenone, deadly to insects, but harmless to man ard beast. The discovery of the source of rotenone in this ccuntry was made partially by Dr. W. W. Skinner, assistant chiéf of the Chemical and Technological Research Unit of the Bureau of Chemistry and Soils and partially by Dr. E. P. Clark of the bureau's insecticide division. D:>. Skinner, while observing the activities of bees and other insects, noted that they fed on many nearby flowers, but avoided the devil’s shoestring, 2 common weed of the North American continent, He drew the conclusion that some poisonous material must be present to drive the insects away from the weed and called this to the attention of Dr. Clark. The latter after some experimentation discovered the presence of the rotenone and through this discovery, made the United States potentially Indepcndent of fcreign supplies. Tne n D ia the process of producing rotcnone 11 b2 the propagation work of the plant speciaiisis of the department, an experi- menial work hich will get underwsy this Spring. The plant, in its natural state yields only about 4 or 5 per cent of the rotenone and other insecticidal ingredients, but experts be- lieve that by proper cultivation this yield can be increased much as the sugar content of sugar beets was increased through develop- ment. The weed, which is a rank grower, is found distributed from New England to Minnesota and as far scuth as Florida and on across to Eastern Texas. Particularly fine specimens of devil's shoestring were found in Virginia and North Carolina. The weed grows well in poor sandy soil and thus offers a crop which might turn otherwise 2imost worthless land into valuable ground through the commercial growth of the weed. The rtoots of the weed ‘are the source of rotenone and because of their size, they offer a potentially abundant supply of the poison. The roots run out from the stalk of the weeds several feet in all directions and as they lie only 2 or 3 inches below the surface of the ground they are easily harvested by pulling the plant bodily out of the ground. At the present time rotenone costs about the same as pyrethrine the poisonous principle of the pyrethrum plant, but as development of the rotenone production and use comes, the agriculturists believe the price may be ma- terially reduced. Already it has found a large market for use in greenhouses, in truck gardens and in combating fleas and other insects an- noying to live stock. The universal panacea of sea and sun and sand had already begun its healing when . Nancy thought, and flushed. “No, he always wires, and very formal telegrams at that. I supposed it was because he’s so conventional, and I've always signed mine ‘love and kisses’ just to tease him. Oh, I could die of shame.” process “Don't be silly;” child. He loves you terribly, or he would never have dared propose. I sup- pose he meant to sweep you off your feet and marry you at once. The poor boy.” Nancy was still blushing. “Of course he doesn't love me, or he'd trust And, Quite Often, Roman ID I keep you waiting? Sorry, but Mr. Ivan is away today and I had to help with his appointments. Shampoo and finger wave? Trim, too, I guess, eh? Oh, I'd say you'd better have one—hair needs thin- ning out anyway. Whew! What a woman I just did! Asked for a row of curis on her neck. Curls! She didn’t have any neck! But could I tell her that? You'd never believe some of the things that happen in this business. Some of the ladies! I'll never forget the ene who—— Who did your hair last time? Oh! I did. Well, the wave stayed in pretty good, eh? That lady certainly owes me a lot. She came in to me one Saturday noon and says, “I want you to fix my hair in lots of curls.” I took one look at her and couldn't believe what she was saying—she was so business-like look- ing with straight hair brushed right back off her ears and one of those dark suits and waists that look almost like a man’s. Sorfi of an old maid, but not bad looking if she’d had some make-up on. “Curls?” I asks her, shocked. “Yes,” she says, getting a little red. “I want my hair soft and, well, you know.” “But madam,” I says, “you don’t want curls.” She glared at me. “Did I ask your advice? I told you curls and I meant curls. Are you a hairdresser or aren’t you?” “That’s what I mean, madam. _You aren't the type for curls and it's because I am a hairdresser that I know it. I cut hair and curl hair now for 15 years and I know my business. See, I could put a nice, loose wave in your hair that would go fine with your clothes -and all.” You see, an artist has his principles. It would have been like putting near beer in a speakeasy to do her hair the way she wanted. “Listen to me,” she says to me. “I know what I'm doing and I want my hair curled. Curled tight. If you won't ¢o it, some one elsc will.” “But with that suit—" “This suit has nothing to do with it. I'm going to throw it in the waste basket.” Her voice got real bitter. “I'm going to buy a pretty dress. Maybe with ruffles. Anyway, you're being impertinent.” BY KAY “Please, madam,” I says, “I don’t mean to be fresh. I've got your interests at heart— that’s the way I am with my clients. Your t » “Type! I'm sick of my type,” she flares up. “In the office they treat me like another man and Mr. Pierce,” she gulps, “he doesn’t know I'm anything but just another machine like a typewriter or a—a——" “Tell me about it,” I says, to calm her down. I didn't want her having hysterics in my beoth. That would look fine, now, wouldn't it? Anyway, I felt kind of sorry for her. You could see she was all bothered and not like herself. “Nonsense,” she says. “Why should I? There’s nothing to tell, anyway. But since that girlish little Harrigan brat with her curls and perfume came into the office—" “Mr. Pierce notices her, eh?” “Notices her! He positively fawns on her. I might as well be -a piece of furniture. And I always thought he was such a fine man—so intelligent, so different from most of them.” Then she looks up at me as if I'd caught her when she was saying her prayers. She got very dignified. “Will you fix my hair or won't you? I don’t have all afterncon.” “Neither do I, madam,” I tells her, “but I want to give you time ecnough to see it my way."” a You see, I figured maybe I could help her land her boss, which was all she wanted, of course, but I knew the way to do it wasn't ;0 try and imitate the other girl. I thought—— Lemon rinse? You'd better. Your hair needs brightening up. “Look,” I tells her. “If you want to look your best and make yourself really attractive, you won't try to fix yourself up like a chorus girl. You're not the type—now, now, wait, will you? I'm trying to help you. You let me fix your hair real distinguisted, just waved back soft and natural from your face and then let me get Miss Jacqueline in here and have her put on make-up the way you need it. I'll guar- antee that’ll do the job. She looks at me for a minute and then says, sort of meek: “How about my clothes?” I studied her. “I've seen a lot of women in my time and my idea would be for you to wear tailored thing’; but not so severe. Not $5 much like !/