Evening Star Newspaper, June 16, 1935, Page 88

8 Magazine Section - by OSCAR GRAEVE RATHER pretty and very unhappy young woman was walking down Fifth Avenue. It was one of those first warm spring days that are ideal in theory but stifling in fact. Sylvia was not only unhappy, she was hot. . And she hadn’t even accom- plished her purpose. She had taken this walk alone so that she coudd think things over, come to a decision, a decision to say to a certain gentleman either a falter- ing “Yes" or a firm and coura- geous “No."” She had left her father and mother on the terrace of their apartment in the East Fifties (rent unpaid for two months) sipping gin and seltzer from tall thin glasses (bought on credit), served by a maid blacker than usual (wagesinarrearssix weeks). Not that these things worried them in the least. Jerome Brewster and his beautiful wife, Virginia, took life lightly. Only Sylvia worried. Sylvia worried terribly. *“My dear, don't let's worry,” Virginia Brewster had said to her husband. “If we have to move, we have to move. It won't be for the first time." And indeed it wasn't. Ever since Sylvia could remember, they had been on the move. From one apartment to another, from one city to another. Followed by the wails of anguished creditors. Sylvia was sick of it all. No wonder the one thing she wanted was a permanent home. “T'd like to settle down in a little white house somewhere,”” she said to herself fiercely, “and stay there a hundred years. I wouldn’t care how small it was, so long as I could stay there forever and everything was paid for.” And now the man had come along who offered her security, a home. Rex Norwood. And not a bad sort. Not bad at all. And yet — Just then one of those little sidewalk cafés that have blossomed forth since repeal met Sylvia's parched gaze. Privet bushes in green tubs shielding little tables. A green awning. On an impulse, Sylvia seated herself at one of the little tables. “A lemonade, please,” she said to the waiter, “with lots and lots of ice, please.” Presently the lemonade was brought, and it did look refreshing. Sprigs of mint. A red cherry lurking like an angel fish in its depths. Sylvia picked up the glassand thought, ‘“Now perhaps I can decide.” Then something terrible happened. The little table rocked like a raft at sea. Icy lemonade drenched Sylvia. The glass fell from her hand and crashed on the pavement. And a young man, flushed and embarrassed, stood before her. “Oh, I am sorry,” he said. “I stumbled over that damn privet bush. Is your dress ruined ?’’ And he seized napkins from nearby tables and began to mop her frantically. Sylvia ‘was furious. “‘Stop it!” she said. “You've done enough damage already.”’ “But what can I do?” he asked. “I'll pay for the dress of course.” “That isn't the worst,” said Sylvia. ‘‘Now I'll never be able to think things over.” The young man stopped, astonished. ‘“What did you say?" he asked. “I said I'd never wanted a lemonade so much in my life.” “Well, at least I can get you another,” said the young man and, in a minute or two, to her consternation, he was sitting opposite her. There was another tall cool lemonade before her. But also there was a tall cool lemonade before Rim. Over the edge of his glass, his clear blue eyes regarded Sylvia seriously. He was a very Illustrations by THIS WEEK She Wanted a Home Walter W. Seaton presentable young man. Slim. Crisp hair. A nice determined mouth and chin. Without intending to do so, Sylvia smiled. The young man said quickly, “Oh, I'm so glad you've forgiven me. I liked you the moment | saw you. Maybe that’s why I fell over the privet bush. I was watching you.” “It's a little unconventional,” Sylvia began. “Don't worry,” he said. “I'm perfectly all right. Behind me are three hundred years of New England ancestors. Very proper, indeed. Tiresomely so. And I am, too.” “Do you live in New England?’ Sylvia managed to ask. What a breathiess young man he was! “No, I don't live anywhere. I just wander around. The here-today, gone-tomorrow sort, you know. I'm just back from Puerto Rico, where I had a job selling tractors. Now I'm thinking of going to Hawaii. A cousin of my father’s has a pineapple plantation there. He thinks I could do something about pineapples. Do you like pineapples?’’ “I like them, but I don't like the thought of Hawaii. Or Puerto Rico. Or traveling any- where. What I'm looking for,” said Sylvia with decision, ‘‘is a little white house on a green hillside where I could settle down and stay for the next hundred years.” “Not in my line. Not at all,” he said with equal decision. “But you haven’t told me’ what you wanted to think over.” “I thought you didn’t hear me say that."” “Yes, I heard. Don’t marry him. If you have to think over marrying a man, you shouldn’t marry him.” Sylvia was startled. ‘‘But how did you know?”’ “Just a hunch. And you looked unhappy, as if you were trying to decide to marry a man you don't really want to marry.” “You're outrageous!” “No, just intuitive. What's your name any- way? Mine's Ezra Adams. Can you imagine a more respectable name?’’ “Mine’s Sylvia Brewster.” “Very pretty, too. What's your father’s name?’’ “Jerome Brewster. Why?"’ He called a waiter and said, ‘‘Please bring me a New York telephone directory.” Leafing June 16, 1935 Sylvia was furious. “You’ve done enough damage already,”” she snapped. “Don’t try to mop it up” through it, ‘“‘Yes, here is the number. That's why. [ thought that later you might like me to telephone you."” “I most decidedly don't!"” said Sylvia, and rose, alittle frightened. “You're a little too — too fast for me, Mr. Adams.”’ “Not fast. Dazzled! As if the sun were in my eyes. But if you want any further advice about marrying any one let me know, I'll be at the Brevoort for a week anyway." “Goodby,"" said Sylvia, in flight. When she arrived home, she found her mother lying on the couch in the living room looking very lovely in a frock of flowered chiffon. (The bill for it was tucked away and forgotten.) Her father stood by the mante], and he too looked extraordinarily handsome in a white linen mess jacket and dress trousers. (Tailors are notoriously easy.) Only Sylvia looked disheveled. “Darling, where have -you been?”’ her mother cried. “You look so flushed.” “It's the heat,”” said Sylvia. ‘I don’t see how the heat makes your dress look as if you had bathed in it. Hurry and change, dear. Rex is coming for dinner.” ““Oh, is he coming again tonight?”’ Sylvia asked in dismay. “Why shouldn’t he come again tonight, considering he wants to marry you?" ‘I don’t feel like seeing him. Not tonight.” “Darling, don't get hysterical again,” said her mother. “Go change into something cool and put eau de cologne on your forehead.” There was a moon that night that hung over the East Fifty-second Street penthouse, like a lonely white lantern in a remote blue sky. Did a moon hang over Puerto Rico, too, Sylvia wondered, and over Hawaii? She shivered a little in the moonlight. “Sylvia, I have the house all picked out for us,”” Rex Norwood said, as they leaned side by side upon the parapet. ‘I saw it Sunday. In Greenwich. Not too large. Eight master bed- rooms and a garage for three cars. In really the smartest section.” “But, Rex, I haven't said I'd marry you."” “Well, I haven't bought the house, Sylvia. Not yet. I thought maybe if you'd come up to see the house with me, why then —" “Don't be absurd. I'm not marrying a house, am I?" "“You've always said you wanted a home, a real home, Sylvia. That's what first drew me | to you.” “Oh, why did I ever say it!"’ thought Sylvia. The next morning the telephone rang much earlier than the Brewster household either liked or expected it to ring. This morning, however, Sylvia was rather expecting it, rather dreading it. She flew to the telephone, and it was the voice she expected. ' “Oh, I asked you not to telephone,” sh¢® said plaintively. “Why have you?” i “I thought you might want some earlp morning matrimonial advice. You're not goingl to marry the old man, are you?" i ‘“‘He’s not an old man — only thirty-six."” . “I'm twenty-six, and I'm old. At least I'nif old and very wise compared with young girl|- who don't know their own minds. How ol are you, Sylvia? Twenty?" f ‘‘Twenty-one.” 1t “Fine! Then you can do as you please. Ang- won't you please have lunch with me? I juss, feel like giving some one good advice.” & “‘Good adyvice is usually odious." d- ““Not when it’s wrapped up in the town'd- best hors d'oeuores. Is half-past twelve tog early?”’ . an “You seem to take it for granted I'lnf accept."” e ‘do." 1et “All right, I do,” she said unexpectedly ah unexpectedly at least to herself. 2ed When Sylvia started back to her room, he 1, mother was waiting for her. [nn ““Who telephoned at this unearthly hour? ] <