The evening world. Newspaper, March 18, 1922, Page 14

2 THE EVENING WORLD'S FICTION SFCTION, SATURDAY, MARCH 18, @ye do to you before Thursday, That la, If you will assure me that Aunt Susanna won't bite me. I'm afraid of her.” “Better not come,” laughed Amy. “Aunt Susanna’s pretty dreadful. I'll gee you next Thursday, then, Henry. Goodby.” “Here—wait a minute —say—Amy,” his yoice changed ever 3» little. “Say —did you know Ray Lowrie was com- ing back?” The girl at the other end of the wire caught her breath. “Is that so?” she answered evasively. “That ought to wake the town up a bit. I wonder if he's going to stay long? Oh, excuse me, Henry—mother's calling. Henry had caught Amy's evasion and under- stood it. “Oh!” he sport!” And Amy, who was packing her bag thought. “That cheap for her Aunt Susanna venture, was congratulating herself that Henry never understood anything! “If he did,” she thought a little bitterly, “per- haps I wouldn't find it 80 easy to say no every time he proposes.” Ow the reason that Amy was running away to her Aunt Su- sanna was simply because she didn't intend to let Ray Low- rie find her in Greenfields when he ar- rived, arguing that if he didn’t find her there he'd think her quite indifferent to the important event of his coming. Also, she had another reason, which had to do with her vanity. When she had flown in from the Country Club to her dressmaker, she had planned, with, the help of that estimable lady, a per- fect marvel of an evening gown. With the moral support of such attire and the undoubted effect of her absence, Amy felt that she might face Ray Lowrie at the Club dance with a most magnificent effect of never having cared, not caring now, and never going to care. Likewise, Henry was wrong to call Ray Lowrie a cheap sport. Ray Low- rie was just—Irish. Irish blue eyes, melting and merry by turns; Irish Dlarney forever on his tongue; a thor- oughly f[rish ippreciation of the fair fex; and a thoroughly Irish habit of shifting his affections in a day, an hour, a minute. Naturally he never married—he'd never been in love long enough with any one girl. As he had some money. he travelled and visited and went wherever there was racing or aviation or any other sport pagean- try. Ard he liked good pictures and good books and good music and pretty women and the light social side of life. Charming, !:responsible, tirresistible— he still was enough of a man that he had got rather tired of enjoying life as a souffle. Back in his head he'd al- wavs held to the notion that when he was thirty-five he'd go home to Green- flelds, perhaps go into business, per- hans—more varucly still—even marry and “settle down.” Since most of the girls that he had heen so much in love with there had since married and set- tled down themselves, without waiting for his return—why, never mind, Amy was still single. So that was why he had written to Amy. * . . ° The prineipal characters in this little three-cornered farce are now ready for their The audience—all of Greenfie'ds-—is waitine expectantly. The Country Club is swept and gar- nished and gayly decorated for the Thursday nicht dance. Ray Lowrie is there, os hondsome, as debonair as ever, slender and dark, ready to flirt with all the old ladies, who adore him, and to hail, with unaffected delight, his old friends. And then Amy Thompson and Henry Eaton came in! Everybody stared at them, and no wonder, for Amy, discarding her fa- vorite pale co'ors, was dressed in vivid, taunting scarlet, a distracting, filmy thine that revealed and concealed and allured and repelled, all at once, and made her white skin seem whiter and her fair color still fairer and her sleek Ddlack hair yet blacker. Behind her rose Henry, a blond giant. And in the hush of attention every one saw Ray Towrie come forward impetuously and hold out both his hands. “Why—it’s you.” And every one saw Amy's indifferent, easy smile. “Yes,” she said. “It's I— and Henry. You haven't forgotten Henry, have you?” Them as the mu- sic began, she placed herself in Henry's arms. “Perhaps I'll see you later,” she eaid over her shoulder as they danced away. Miss Henrietta Bird, who was near- est, positively thrilled. “It was just like something on the stage,” she told Mrs. Lovell the next day. “I wouldn't have belleved that Amy had it in her.” ces NDEED, if Amy had suddenly and violently slapped Ray Lowrie’s face he wouldn't have been more surprised or more outraged, A nice thing, indeed, if the girl who should be all a-twitter at your sudden appearance nods at you and dismisses you with a cool perhaps-I'll-see-you- later. He calmly drew off to the side, am] when Henry and Amy came round the second time he stopped them “Here, Henry, you selfish villain,” he eaid, deliberately disengaging him @om Amy, “you needn't think vou can take Amy away from me like that, I'll just cut in--by your leave’——- And with that he swung Aimy about and they were gone. Amy ws 80 angry that she could have screamed. Why didn’t Henry show more spirit? Why did he let Ray Lowrle cut in—it wasn’t at all as she had planned things. How be indiffer- ent and gayly careless when you are mad all through and all your rage is for the man who is dancing with you. And Ray Lowrie was laughing. “Henry’s just the same slow poke,” he said, “but you—you’re not the same, Amy. You're wonderful, And you're beautiful—more beautiful than ever. And this scarlet frock makes you look like’—— “Like a fire in a grate, I dare say,” said Amy. “You're just the same, Ray. You say just the same things in just the same way.” He answered by stopping dancing, and leading her out to the most se- cluded and shadowy corner of the ver- anda. Miss Henrietta Bird thrilled again to see them go. She turned to see how Henry took it, but Henry was dancing gayly nway and apparently didn't see anything but his partner. “Where have you been for so long,” demanded Ray, after he had put cush- ions at Amy's back. “I’ve been here since Saturday—and this is Thursday. That means—Sunday, Monday, Tues- day, Wednesday and to-day, five per- fectly good years of my life utterly wasted.” “I've been visiting Aunt Susanna,” returned Amy shortly. “What!” he cried. “Ts that old ter- magant still alive? How she used to scowl at me when I'd come to call on you. I was always afraid of her.” “She's still alive and still disapprovés “HERE, HENRY, YOU SELFISH VILLAIN. to drag Amy shrieking away,” he an- nounced cheerfully. “She's the only person who will endure my fox-trot- ting.” “I shall see you very soon,” Ray said to Amy earnestly. She pulled at her scarf and eyed him over its searlet transparency. “We'll have some tennis,” she prom- ised, “And some golf,” said Henry, adding himself to the group. He sounded ex- actly like a complacent husband of many years’ standing, and Amy, in spite of herself, grinned at his tone. “Ray's just the same,” said Henry suddenly, breaking the silence. “I sup- pose he’s well enough—in his way— but what makes all you women fall for him in the way you do? Honestly. what is it?” Amy smiled again into the rushing dark. “Henry,” she said sternly, “are you jealous?” Henry gave a little half groan. “T suppose I am,” he admitted. The car flew along. As it drew up under the Thompsons’ porte-cochere, Amy caught up her scarlet ruffles. She poised herself on the step. “Well, you'd better be jealous,” she said—and ran into the house. eeeeeé * ® MMEDITATELY thereafter a mid- summer madness seemed to fall upon the three of them. They be- came, within the limits of conven- tion, simply two males struggling for the possession of one female. A pri- meval bare-faced contest it was. To begin with, Ray Lowrie bought a ear, a big and powerful car that com- pletely threw Henry's little old run- eh ones ~ 7 it ‘} YOU NEEDN’T THINK YOU CAN TAKE AMY AWAY FROM ME LIKE THAT.” of all young men,” gaid Amy. “She says they’re all bad, every one of 'em, tricky and worthless. She mimicked perfectly the old lady's rasping voice. “Oh, Amy—Amy,” laughed Ray. “How that takes me back. Do you re- member the night I came for you to go canoeing’—— HE night he came for her to go canoeing! In spite of herself Amy felt her blood run a little faster. “Of course, I remem- ber,” she cried involuntarily. “That was the night’—she stopped and looked up at him, She had been about to say “that you kissed me.” But she finished it instead—“that I ruined my only pair of white slippers. I would wear them,” Ray Lowrie laid his hand gently on her wrist. “And do you remember what I used to call you—West Wind’? That's what you were like, Amy—that's what you are like still"—— Henry loomed before them. “Going about in the shade. He had his car painted scarlet, to match the dress that Amy had worn the night of the dance, he told her. And the car and its owner were at Amy's disposal at any hour. By the fact that he had no office hours or business to consider, Ray Lowrie could see Amy oftener than Henry. But Henry, though he attended faithfully to the affairs of the plane-and-sash company, nevertheless took a good bit of time off and hung on doggedly. As for Amy, she enjoyed thoroughly the fact that she was the most court- ed, the most talked-of and yet the most thoroughly blameless young lady in the whole of Greenfields. To be sensa- tional without any dangling scandal is a fairly delightful occupation to a girl who is just on the verge of spinster- hood, whose friends are mostly mar- ried and with children who call her “aunty,” and who has seen nothing be- fore her but more spinsterhood or else marriage with a thoroughly good. un- interesting man 1922. Yet—was Henry so uninteresting? After playing tennis with Ray and straining every nerve to beat him and not succeeding, for he played a bril- liant, swift and dangerous game, it was more and more delightful to have a steady soothing round of golf with Henry. However, Amy put off her decision and merely bought some more clothes, She could see no use in making up her mind before she was sure of it. She bloomed eadiantly under the spell of her new desirability. REENFIELDS had not been so stirred for years. In summer there is nowhere to go except the Country Ciub, and equally, of course, the yerandas seethed with interested spectators of the Lowrie- Eaton rivalry. The late arrivals be- sieged the early birds with questions like this: “Are they here yet?” “Who'd she come with to-day, Henry or Ray?” “Tennis or golf to-day?” The feminine contingent favored Ray's suit—the men stood solidly by Henry. The atmosphere was down- right feverish, Between Henry and Ray there was ostensible, I might even say, ostenta- tious peace. They played golf to- gether—Henry winning just often enough to make it interesting. Ray was a good golfer, though addicted to pressing. He preferred tennis—with Amy. Nothing tempted Henry onto the courts. Golf was his game. So Amy played tennis with Ray ahd golf with Henry, and walked and talked and danced and teased and motored with them both. It was Ray who broke over first. Not being accustomed to being denied what he wanted, or thwarted in his pursuit, he made occasion for a tete-a-tete in the moonlight of the Thompson per- rola. “How much longer are you going to torture me?” he demanded. ‘Don't talk like the hero of a melo- drama,” said Amy. “I'm not torturing you—you're torturing yourself, if there’s any torture going on.” “You needn't ridicule me, at least,” said Ray. “You know why I cane back—it was only to see you—and you've kept me dangling and put me off until I'm almost out of my mind.” He said it so fervently he quite be- lieved it. “Then why pleasantly. dangle?” asked Amy, “There's any number of younger, pretticr girls in Greentields than I. Have I asked you to dangle? On the contrary, I shou'd say.” “Amvy!" reproached Ray, ‘vou were not a bit like this when [I went away.” “Certainly not,” said Amy. “I was perfectly crazy about you then, you know. But you were away some time.” “And Henry stayed right here.” “Henry certainly stayed right here,” admitted Amy There was a consi lerable lence, and a meaningful one “You'd never be happy with Henry,” said Ray. MY kept discreetly and pro- vokingly still, She felt sure that the hour of Ray's sub- mission was at hand Nor was she disappointed. His ardent voice and his romantic pose fitted in admir- ably with the moonlivht and the fra- grant, deserted garden about them Doubtless he realized it. “Listen,” he said, “I've been all over this world and I've known women everywhere,” but I've never cared for one of them as I ere for you. T’ve always meant to come back to you-—- and here lam. T've always loved you, Amy. Don't vou bolieve me? Don't you trust me?” He waited—quite sure of her. But Amy waited, too. And then she an- swered very thoughtfully. “No, Ray—that’s just it. I don't trust you. You're interesting and amusing and appealing, and you can make any one care for you"”—— “Can 1?’—broke in Ray. “Can I? Can I make you? T'll do nothing else, night and day—if that’s true, but try to make you love me.” And when he went away a little later Amy owned to herself that perhaps— perhaps he might succeed. Miss Henrietta Bird waylaid Amy a morning or so later as she passed, for once alone. She waved at her from the upstairs gallery. “Come in here, Amy, sake,” she called. for goodness She ran downstairs and drew the girl into the old-fash- ioned drawing room, with its ancient walnut furniture, its long unused harp, its row of family portraits. “Amy, my dear,” began Miss Henri- etta, “youl say I'm nothing but a meddling old woman, but I can't see this thing go on without saying my say to you.” Amy did not pretend to misunder- stand. “You mean Ray and Henry, don't you, Miss Henrietta?” she asked sweetly. “I wish you would tell me what you think. Mother's disgusted with me and father thinks I'm crazy— ord T can't talk to any one else abeut py ad “You're a sweet child,” exclaimed Miss Henrietta, jumping up and eiving Amy a spontaneous hig “snd you've