Evening Star Newspaper, September 22, 1935, Page 78

2 Magazine Section ASTBOUND traffic on Fifty-sixth Street jammed at the corner of Park Avenue, halted by a ruby light. There was an avalanche of north- south traffic, so that the street vibrated. And ali the way from Madison {0 Parn the con- gestion became greater. The night was aictic, with a wind which stabbed at pedestrians and impelled them to burrow deeply into overcoat collars. Pro- vided they had overcoats. The man who was selling gardenias did not have one. He was a tall man, reasonably broad. His clothes were neat but threadbare: his gray felt hat betrayed its age. He carried a long, narrow flower box in the crook of his left arm, and in his right hand he held two gardenias, tinfoiled together into a corsage. He took advantage of the red licht which detained crosstown traffic and moved into the street, tapping on the windows of taxis and displaying his two gardenias hopefully and provocatively. But windows remained closed and passengers indifferent. Gardenia sellers intested every busy intersection. The girl in the long, emerald limousine considered them a nuisance and was faintly annoyed when the man approached her car. The window was open just a trifle at the top, and she heard his voice: ‘‘Gardenizs, Miss?”’ She sat up straight. Suddenly. The ermine wrap was no longer snug about her white throat. She stared through the window at the shabby flower peddler. The light flashed green and traffic surged forward, but the voice of the girl in the ermine wrap cut through to the chauffeur. She said, ‘‘Hold it, John.” The limousine re- mained motionless, blocking cars in the rear. THIS. WEEK Traffic Jam The Gardenia Seller and the Orchid Lady reach a Dead-End Street by OCTAVUS ROY COHEN There was an instant bedlam, a screeching of sirens, and the chauffeur said, “We're block- ing traffic.” The gardenia seller was moving away when the girl flung open the door. Her voice was sharp. She cailed, “Bruce!” The man turned, startled. She called again, “Come here!"" and as he approached the car, she said, “‘Get in."” He hesitated and she spoke again, imperi- ously repeating the words of her chauffeur. “We're blocking traffic.”” He stepped into the car, and settied beside her in the soft, warm upholstery. She spoke to the chauffeur. “Drive back to my apartment.” The gardenia seller said nothing. His finely chiselled features gave no hint of his thoughts, except that there was a faintly sardonic smile on his lips. The girl said, petulantly: “What's it all about?"” His response was casual. “‘You're looking well, Nina.” Nina said, ‘‘You — selling flowers on the street!"” She gestured toward the box which he still held. *“Throw it out."” He shook his head. ‘“They cost me four dollars.” “I'll pay for them. Throw them out." He lowered the window, and the long box hurtled through the air. “That suit you?" he inquired. She nodded, but did not speak until the car drew up in front of an austere apartment house on Fifth Avenue. He asked, ‘‘Same old apartment?”’ and she said “Yes."” The lavishly uniformed doorman stared after them as they entered the black-and- silver elevator. She unlocked the door of her apartment and snapped a switch. The hall was bathed in a mellow glow. He followed her into the living room, battered hat in hand, and stood quietly while she moved about the living room, touching the light cords of decorative lamps. She tossed her evening wrap onto the couch and stood revealed as a woman who was beautiful in a hard, well-tended way. Her midnight hair was brushed tight against a well-shaped head, so that it looked like varnish, carefully applied. Her eyebrows were thinly arched, her eyes bright, her lips too crimson. She opened a cellarette, and said, Sovech?' “Thanks." “Straight - as usual?”’ “Yes." He dropped into a comfortable chair, his eyes focussed on a vase of orchids. “*Still partial to the yellow ones?”’ “Yes.” Then she looked directly at him. “You spoiled me -— when we were married."” It seems like ten years since I was here."” “Two," she corrected, ‘‘since the divorce." She sat on a hassock and looked up at him. ““Tell me about it, Bruce." ‘*‘About what?"’ *“This stunt of selling flowers." He shrugged. “‘It's an honorable profession, and a man must live."” “‘But surely you have something left." “Does it look that way?" The big. black eyes were cold and calcu- lating. “Why didn’t you let me know?" *“You answer." “Well . . ."" She hesitated. “'I thought vou had plenty after the divorce settlement.” *No. Your lawyers saw to that."” “You didn't protest.” “I wasn't in the mood."” ‘‘And what money you had’" Hlustration by A. Bleser, Jr. The man turned, startled “Bruce!” cried the girl in ermine. September 22, 1935 “I'lost it.” He laughed briefly. *Is this the time to confess that it's all a masquerade? That I knew you were going to pass the corner and wanted you to pick me up?" Yigate’ “I'm afraid not. It just happens not to be true.” She had been regarding him steadily. ‘“The divorce bumped you pretty badly, didn't it, Bruce?"” He said, “Skip it. That's done."” He sur- veyed the lavish room. *‘Time seems to have treated you nicely, Nina." “Oh! moderately. I'm not complaining.” Then, “Think of your selling flowers on the street. Just a couple of years ago the name Bruce McIntyre meant something "' “It still does,”” observed Bruce McIntyre gravely, ‘“‘to me.”” He finished his drink, rose and reached for his hat. She said, “Don’t go,"" and he smiled down at her. “The night’s young. I've got to work." “You'll come back, won't you?'’ she urged. “I don’t believe so." “Why not?" “The chapter closed - two years ago." She said, ‘“You have lots of foolish pride, Bruce MclIntyre.”” Then she fumbled in her evening bag, and held out two fifty-dollar bills. ““Take these."” “The gardenias you bought from me,"”" he said slowly, ‘“‘cost exactly four dollars. I haven't any change.” She said sharply, “Don’t be theatrical. You probably consider that it belongs to you anyway.’' Again that thin smile was on his lips. He said, “‘Yes, I suppose it does.” He took the hundred dol- lars, said good night, and left. He took a bus down Fifth Avenue, almost to Washington Square. He walked west along a street lined with dingy, red-brick buildings, and turned in at the doorway of one. He walked up to the fourth floor, and entered. A girl turned to greet him a young, slender girl with chestnut hair and corn-flower eyes. She exclaimed, ‘‘Bruce! You're early.” “Sold out,” he explained. Then he said, ‘“Hat and coat, Mary. We're going places." On the way uptown he told her of his meeting with his former wife and of his wvisit to the apartment he had once shared with her. They left the bus at Fifty-seventh Street and walked to the ornate shop of one of New York's finest florists. A clerk moved forward, eyeing Bruce MclIntyre's gen- teel shabbiness skeptically. Brucesaid, ‘I want ninety- six dollars worth of yellow orchids.” “Ninety-six?"’ “Precisely. Not a dollar more nor a dollar less. They're to be sent to Mrs. Nina McIntyre.”” He gave the address. The florist was more re- spectful. “Will you enclose a card?"” “Certainly.”” Bruce turned to the girl. “‘Got a card with you, Mary?"”’ She smiled. “‘I still have two or three left.” She handed him the card which was to go with the orchids. It was a simple thing. It was engraved: ““Mrs. Bruce McIntyre.”