Evening Star Newspaper, May 21, 1933, Page 67

. THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, S = “It He Whistled” By ] osep/zine Bentham A Delightful Story of T'wo Young People Who Had Nothing but Love—One of The Star Magazine’s First-Run Fiction Series. OU would look at Luke Jameson and decide, upon the instant, that he would make an ideal husband for ebody. wn;hrgoi Davies glanced &cross the table and sighed. P «“wWhat's the matter?” asked Luke. i «f always order pistachie ice cream, slltu:l Margo, “and I always hate it when I get it. “That s0?” 3 » said Margot, “I'm like that.” ;.Yu:se' finished his own tempting dish—he had chosen strawberries—and drummed his fingertips, ever so lightly, upon the gleaming tablecloth. - “Now what would you like teo do tonight? ed. he“i‘skhnven't the faintest idea,” said Margot. «“There's the theater,” said Luke Mel:fly. *Or we might take a run to Westchester. % “Both out,” said Margot. “Deo you mind? Luke continued to play, judicially, with the many resources at his command. Luke had a manner. : “We might go over to the Coltons, he sug- gested. . “There’d be bridge or dancing. wrhat would be nice,” said Margot, smiling. T!!!Ykmwlnumbeto!mcpeople'ho'ere at the Coltons that evening. Bill Chaney was there—with Ecna Thatcher. And after an hour or more Margot found herself in a cool corner of the pent house front yard— with Bill Chaney. This was odd, because it didn’t mean anything any more. “1 like this place,” said Bill, carefully. Z “A view of the Hudson just over the drive, said Margot. 3 “We'll keep love and romance—— said Bill, and checked himself. . “Porever alive!” concluded Margot brightly. *Did you forget?” “No,” said Bill I've always liked.” There was a silence. Omce upon a time these two had talked of marriage—with a view of the Hudson just over the drive. “Remember how it was—this time last year?” asked Bill abruptly. “It was different—last year. I think it was warmer.” “No,” said Margot quietly. “It’s the same old Summertime.” But she did not look at him—because she was lying. This time, last year, she had not been with Luke, and Bill had not been with Edna. “Well,” said Bill, “shall we toddle back into the house?” Edna eyed Bill possessively from a slip-cov- ered couch. Luke eyed Margot possessively from the curve of a grand piano. “Not really—that's a song III WAS terribly worried,” said Coralie Jones, upon the afternoon of the following day. “How did it happen you were out on the roof with Bill?” Coralie was Margot's best friend. “I guess we both wanted air,” said Margot. “you and Bill always used to want air, saild Coralie. “But you never used to come back out of it.” “I don’t think we were in our right minds,” said Margot shortly. “Oh, you weren't! to look almost vacant.” “Did we?” “Oh, yes, my dear! But I guess poor old Bill feels the same way about Edna now. And this time last year—isn't it funny?” “Terribly funny,” said Margot. “I laugh every time I think of it.” * Her best friend regarded her with a sudden glint of suspicion. “Luke’s a much better bet,” she said. realize that, I hope?” Margot nodded. “Money and family. He's terribly nice, too.” Coraliec narrowed her eyes. «But if Bill whistled for you,” she said, “you’d go back to him!™ “If he whistled for me,” said Margot prompt- ly, “I'd laugh. And then I'd look him in the eye and say, ‘My dear chap, you bore me!”"” “That’s what you ought to do,” said Coralie vigorously. “And then I'd toss in another light laugh,” said Margot, with relish. “And then I'd say, ‘D’'you mind frightfully if we talk of some- thing else? Good books or the theater?” Coralie snickered. “He has it coming to him,” she said. “But he isn’'t going to whistle,” said Margot softly. “No—Dbut anyhow you've got Luke all roped and tied. That's something!™ That, indeed, was something. Everybody knew that Bill Chaney was charm- but rather negligible. Everybody also knew that Bill had forsaken Margot for Edna Thatcher, a total little blond loss. It was not Bil's fault—nor Margot's. Possibly it was Edna'’s, Bill had been wooed and won by a dulcet and helpless whimpering that Margot would have scorned to rival. “Let's not kid each other,” she had said to him crisply. i “You know I've always been so terribly fond of you,” the wretched Bill had muttered. “I mean, apart from everything else, I've always felt we had such a swell sort of friendship.” ¢ By i b el eed I mean you both used “you “Rementber how it was this time last year?” asked Bill abruptly. “No,” said Margot quietly . . . But she did not look at him— different . . .” because she was lying. “Oh, sure!” she had interposed quickly. “Ob, sure! Let's carry on with the friendship!™ Whereupon they avojded each other. A friendship can be built upon a number of foundations, but an old love affair isn’t one of them. Now, fortunately, for Margot, everybedy knew that Luke Jameson had many sterling quali- ties that Bill Chaney lacked. And these sterling qualities constituted just so many good reasons for marrying Luke. H> pointed them out to her om a moonlit night. “Do you care for me?” he asked. “The least little bit, Margot?” “I don't know what this sensation is—this sensation that I have.” “You're being humorous!™ “My dear Luke, I never felt less humorous in my life.” “Well,” he said resolutely,” we ought to be able to fix it up. The point is—de you think you care for anybody else?” “Oh, no,” she said. “I certainly don’t care for anybody else! Why—who'd it be?” “Well, then—what's the matter with me?” ‘There was, obviously, nothing the matter with him, ORALIE JONES settied herself at the foot “of Margot's bed. “So he proposed,” she said, avid for details. “That’s such a sweet, old-fashioned word.” said Margot. “I always think of the bended knee and a npseay clutched in the extended “Dii you accept him?” demanded Coralie, ignoring this. Margot lit a cigarette. “I suppose I shall.” “Well, o'course. And if you announced your engagement it would be sort of an ironic thing—right now.” “Why?” asked Margot idly. “You mean because Bill Chaney’s been let down by Edna Thatcher?” “Naturally!™ Margot nodded. “It's like some sort of cockeyed game—" “Ye-es.” “It's funny,” added Margot, “that I den think it's funny.” » with Edna and came down again. “If Bill whistled, I suppose.” “No! I'm not in love with Bill any more. My dear woman, don't you think I've any pride? I wouldn't take Bill if he were the last man on earth. But I'm not really in love with Luke, either. Bill spoiled all that. He simply took the thrill away. There isn't any thrill to give to anybody else.” “Oh—thrill!” said Coralie Jones. “That's a lot of young-love-in-the-moonlight. It's not really important. It doesn’t get you any- where.” “Et ;he-n seem to,” said Margot. “It was MARGOI‘ went to Bermuda and played with the idea of marrying Luke Jameson. Then she came back to. New York and ran into Bill Chaney. "He was downtown—wasting his time, as usual “I see myself in those raspberry-colored pajamas,” he said, without preamble. She glanced t* ough the plate glass. “Not with your hair,” she told him. “Then I'll buy them for you, Margot.” “No,” she said firmly. They walked up Pifty-ninth street. It was like old times. “That’s a good color you have,” he said. “Sun or lamp?” “Sun.” “Away al Summer?” “Bermuda.” “Like it?" “Hated it.” “But it's a good tan,” he said, consolingly. “You go away?” “Not for long. I went up a gangplank 1 suppose you heard all about that,” he added morosely. “I behaved abominably. Carried on, you know.” “You were supposed to,” she said. sort. of —dashing.” “I snapped out of it pretty well” he said complacently. “I came right back to town when the pavements were se hot they waved about my ankles—and for two months I've been working like a dog on an idea that’s going to turn the advertising business upside down! It's absolutely new, d'you see?” Margot grinned. Bill always had absolutely new ideas. “See here,” he said abruptly, “there’s no reason why and I shouldn’t be friends?” “Aren’t we?” z “You know what I mean,” he said. *“I don’t know why we’'ve drifted apart the way we have. Luke wouldn't mind if we saw each other once in a while, would he?” “Luke? Oh, no! He knows I'm quite the little patron of the arts. And I'i patronize you, Bill.” “That’s fine. Cheer me on—and bring in the milk and crackers when I'm starving.” “It's commercial art, of course,” she said doubtfully.: “Does one starve over 2" o} “It was “Oh, you have no idea! Now see here, why don't you come with me right new and look at my new studio? Pifty-third street. Big and shabby—and simply filled with atmosphere. You come right along with me, Margot.” - He went on talking about the studio. “A lot can be done with an old room like mine,” he said hastily, throwing open the door of a brownstone front house. “A lot always has to be done,” seid Margot. “Where's the kitchen?” “Oh, that sort of alcove thing.” Margot peered under rust and cobwebs at something. “It's & two-ring gas burner!” she announced in astonishment. “Sure. And the bath room’s downstairs, I share it with an old lad who gives violin lessons. He's got a cat called Mrs. Vander- bilt. Absolutely dotty—the old lad. But mow about this room, Margot. I was thinking of tacking strips of gold paper and red paper here—and here—and over there by the win- dow. The furniture’ll cover up most of the rest of the wall paper. And if I put an enormous couch :@ that corner, with a flock of pillows—you know, the Latin Quarter touch——" “Bill,” said Margot firmly, “we've got to paint the floor.” “Must we?” “But certainly! Just look at it! A couple of coats—we can go right out and get some floor_ varnish.” “All right. Let's shop!” E was taking her for granted. It crossed her mind that Luke, on the other hand, treated her as if she were a bit of rare old china. He wouldn't have expected her to carry four leaking cartons of food from a delicatessen. Bill was carrying the floor var- nish and the stove polish. But they had added bread and choose and ginger ale to their burdens. And, after they had varnished the floor and polished the stove, they ate. They were sitting on spread newspapers—thrusting paper forks into the cardboard cartons from the delicatessen. They drank the ginger ale from two thick glassés, borrowed from the oid-man who gave violin lessons. The ginger ale was quite warm. “Doesn’t this taste like nothing on earth?” he demanded. “It’s marvelous,” said Margot. “I like being primitive,” said Bill. “Don’t g “I'm crazy about it,” said Margot. “D’you know—if you shook up that ginger ale bottle and put your thumb over the top and siphoned it through—it'd be sizzy?” “Yes?” said Bill. He did that, and the ginger ale lost control —shot in a swift golden stream to the ceiling. The ceiling was ruined. “You're frightfully inefficient,” said Margot, when she could speak. ’ “I know,” said Bill beaming. true artist.” “Only you don’t really paint.” “Maybe not. But I've got a splendid tem- perament.” “I remember,” said Margot. “We had a good time, didnt we? it lasted?” She knew what he meant. “Sure,” she said hastily. “But it was kind of crazy, wasn't it? We were too much alike, We needed sobering influences.” “We-ell,” said Bill, “there wasn't anything very . sober about us, of course. But we had a good time!" Together they regarded the ruins of their old love with that respectful gentleness usually accorded to ruins. “Punny we can talk about it now,” szaid Margbt brightly. “I mean—it all goes to show.” He knew what she meant. “I hear it's all fixed up between you end Luke,” he saild with a certain embarrassment. “We-ell,” said Margot, “practically!” “That’s great,” he said. “That’s simply great.” . His yellow hair was rumpled. But be was talking with - the precision of a small boy thrust into a drawing room. Suddenly Margot couldn’t see him. Her eyes were blind tm a swift flash of silver. “I—I'd better take those glasses back,” she said. “Old Mr. Hubbard—he'll probably be wanting ‘em——" ‘TI'm your While OR several minutes Margot talked to the professor. She petted Mrs. Vanderbilt and admired the professor’s violin. She came up the stairs to a shrill blast, Bill had yelled for her—and then had whistled, as only Bill could whistle. She found him, hanging by his hands from the rafters with the small stepladder sprawling at his feet. “Hey!” he sald indignantly, “Didn't you hear me whistle?” Laughter kept her helpless for a moment or two. Then she tottered to the ladder and set it up. Bill was on top of the ladder, grinning reluctantly. “Was I funny?” he asked. “Terribly funny!” said Margot. you trying to do?” “Oh, I got a bright idea about the ceiling. I thought I might glue some of the gold paper over the place where I shot the ginger ale, There’s the glue—under the chair. The ladder went out from under me.” “And the glue’s all over our new varnish!” “I was thinking of the floor,” he said ag- grievedly. “That’s why I didn't jump. That's why I whistled for you.” “Oh!” said Margot. The voice of Coralie Jones seemed, sude denly, to be audible in the room. “We can do the floor over again, can't we?” Bill was demanding. He dragged on his cig< arette and frowned. “Oh, see here, Margot, I've been a sap, an absolute sap. I can’t get along without you. There never was anybody to compare with you—never! Give me a break, won't you, ? A nice, new break?” Margot stared at him. “Are you proposing to me—from the top of a stepladder?” He scrambled down. They both forgot absut “What were Continsted on Pourteenth Page > |