The evening world. Newspaper, April 1, 1922, Page 14

2 THE EVENING knew that ahe knew; and each of them knew that the other was sorry. What Miss Bell said was: “There is nothing else of immediate importance. You have a conference with Mr. John Blade at 10 o'clock and an appoint- ment with the Farwell people at 11. Would you like the Marwell folder?” And what Henry said was: “Yes, Bring me the Farwell folder.” At 10 o'clock Hegry told John Blade about his offer from Theodore Camp. “IT don't want you to leave us, Hénry,” Jobn Blade said. “T don't want to leave,” Henry Mills said, “but ('m afraid [I can't afford to cefuse.” “H-m-mn-m-m,” John Blade said, “I suppose they're offering you about twice as inuch money us we're puy- ing you?” “Just about twice.’ “Well”’—-- John Blade paused, ‘Go out and see them, Henry. We can give you a xvod big jump—say $2,000. But we can't double your salary, and we won't stand in your way if you can dowble it.” Henry thought it a very satisfying conversation as he reviewed it before going to sleep that night. He liked John Blade. WNRY during the worked unusually hard three days that followed, With Miss Bell's help he cleaned up every- thing by 5 o'clock Thursday after- noon, His ticket to Midvale was in his pocket; his berth was reserved; his bag was packed. Miss Bell leaned over Henry's desk and picked up the five clegantly typed letters that Henry had just signed. Something in that simple and familiar gesture cauglit Henry's attention. He and Miss Bell had done their last day's work together. “Miss Bell,” said Henry. Miss Bell paused. Henry hesitated. They had never met outside the offices of Blade & Blade by accident. It was inconceivable that one of Blade & Blade's executives would meet his sec- retary outside the office on purpose. But Henry felt himself to be no longer an executive of Blade & Blade's, He hadn't officially resigned, but he had virtually resigned. Didn't that jus- tify his crossing the barrier that had hitherto prevented him from knowing Miss Bell-—-er “Have you ever been to a cabaret?” he asked. “No,” said Miss Bell, “I never have.” “Neither have J,” said Henry. They both smiled. Neither men- tioned the sentence in Theodore Camp's letter that urged Henry to give up caburets. “Will you go to a cabaret with me to-night?” “Yes,” said Miss Bell. “I like to.” “Where do you live?” Henry asked. “IT live in West Ninth Street—No. 63 West Ninth.” “I'll call for you ut-—say, 7 o'clock. “ll ibe ready,” said Miss Bell, “at geven.” socially? 1 should ENRY approached No, 68 West Ninth Street at five minutes of 7 in a state of excited curiosity. He had known Miss Bell, the incomparable secretary, for more than three years. He was about to meet Mary Bell, the pretty girl, for the firsc time. Henry was not used to meeting pretty girls. It was Miss Bell who opened the door for him and led the way down the old-fashioned long hall to the liv- ing room of her little flat. It was Miss Bell—but Miss Bell in a trock of soft dark silk, with something white wbont the neck Henry sat in the caay chair beside the reading lamp) whrile Miss Bell went to put on her hat. The place spoke to Henry of the pleasant life that was lived in it. There were tea things on a low table beside the fireplace; there were books; and a piano; and at his feet was a Wwork- basket full of soft colorful stuffs It spoke ulso of good taste, sturdy good taste, with a quaintly Victorian Aavor. Mary Bell appeared. She had put on her hat, a simple hat of sott greenish-yellow straw, a hat with a broad velvet ribbon that matched her frock. It was a most becoming hat. It was sauce piquunte—that hat. It definitely abolished Miss Bell and pre- sented you with Mary Bell. They walked east in Ninth Street. lt had not occurred to Henry to get a taxi. He knew he could pick one up round the corner in the avenue, at the stand of the Brevoort Hotel. But as they tuened into the avenue Henry @aw an open carriage, a horse car- riage with a cabby dozing on the box. It had the air of an easy chair, that Victoria. It captured Henry. “Let's take that,” said Henry. “Let's,” cried Mary Bell, The cabman awoke with a flourish; Henry and Mary ensconced them- selves; the horse jogged lazily up the avenue, It was that magie hour be- tween daylight and dark when the avenue softens into friendliness and seems old and kind and gracious, Henry found it deeply p'teasing to jog up the avenue, with his hands resting on the crook of his Malacca stick, with Mary Bell beside him, with the consciousness that at thirty-four his services were valued at $10,000 a year. He looked at Mary Bell and e@miled, and she smiled back. They reached Forty-seoond Street. “Ite a little early yet—don't you think?” said Henry. “This is most awfully nice,” said Mary Bell, The cabman took it for granted they were going on, At 69th Street he turned into the park. He followed the winding way across the park, across Broadway, up the Drive. It was like being rocked to sleep. Henry rested; he did not want to walk—rfot yet; he did not want to think—especially he did not want to think about a cabaret. They approached the Claremont. “Look,” said Mary Bell. The lights were on. People were taking their places at the tables on the terrace, overlooking the river. Henry looked. Instantly he wanted to abandon the cabaret. He wanted to dine quietly and elegantly at a table overlooking the river with Mary Bell. He wanted to look into the soft half- lights over the river. “Let’s stop here,” said Mary Bell. “Let's not go to a cabaret.” Henry smiled. Mary Bell showed her dimple. Could anything be more perfect? HEY dined almost in_ silence, looking at the river. When the coffee carne, Henry talked. He talked about Midvale and his Uncle Andrew and his first year in New York—about all the things he had never talked about before to any- body. Mary Bell listened. “Heavens,” Henry said, after an hour and a half, “I didn’t realize 1 had so much to say. I'm sorry I've talked so long.” “I'm glad,” said Mary Bell. “Lf un- derstand too, I think. { was born in the Middle West.” “Where?” ‘In Bingham, Ohio.” “What kind of place is Bingham?” “It must have been awfully like Mid vale," said Mary Bell. She guve him little glimpses of her girlhood—bits about her music teacher, and singing in the choir, and going to high school danc . “You see,” she concluded, “it was a CR Ta een Seta SS “IT WAS RAINING PITCHFORKS regular old-fashioned American town. “And don’t you ever want to go back there?” “Of course [ dream of it blue. But [ don't really want to go back. T only want to live in the coun- try and have a garden and flowers and a veranda and just a few awfully good friends.” “You do!” said Henry. WW was so exactly what he wanted. “I thought you were a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker.” “Tam. Didn't [ just tell you 1 wanted to live in the country?” “Would you commute?” “I'd even commute,” suid Mary Bel, “But friends, said Henry. “How is one ever Ww York? when i'm . ‘ find triends ia New | WORLD'S FICTION SECTION, SATURDAY, APRIL 1, 1922. | ‘Friends! Why, I've got lotsa of friends. New York is the friendliest place in the world.” “t haven't found it so,” said Henry. “Then,” said Mary Bell, “I think it’s your own fault.” ‘% suppose it is,’ Henry admitted. “I suppose I’ve cared too much about succeeding.” He paused. “I had to care too much at first. { had to give up everything. And now I've lost the way of the things I gave up.” “You're etill a young man,” said Mary Bell, and her eyes laughed at him, “I feel old,” said Henry. “One does—when one is young,” said Mary Bell. Henry laughed; he jnughed at him- self, Mary Bell looked at her wrist. “I think now it’s time for your train.” It was like Mary Lel| to remember his train when he had forgotten all about it. Miss Bell always saw that Henry caught his trains 66 OU see how it is with me,” Henry said on the way downtown “L want all sorts of things I've never had. But most of ali, | think I want to go back and put it over on the old home town,” Henry was astonished at himself the moment he had spoken. It was 80 boyishly intimate a confession to make. “Of course you do,” said Mary Bell warmly. “Everybody does. Why, every once in a while I dreain of going back to Bingham, O., and building a big house—far and away the finest house in town—and giving 4 :nost wonderful party fust so I can invite the daughter of the town’s rich inan and put it all over her because she snubbed meonce when I was twelve!’ They both laughed, the sympathetic laugh of two people who have just shared an intimate weakness and like each other ever so much better for sharing it. Then the taxi drew up at No. 68 West Ninth Street ond Henry had on!ty a minute which to say very oo ee eee NOW, BUT HENRY WALKED DOGGEDLY ON.” goodby to Mary Bell jest he miss his train. Mary Hell gave him her hand. ‘It’s been one of the nicest evenings I ever spent,” she said. Ifenry held her hand. It’s been the nicest evening I ever spent,” he said, Mary Kell gave his band a final Ut- tie shake, “Good luck.” she sald, ‘SY feel uwfully lucky now,” sald {fenry, still holding her hand, “You'll miss your train’ cried Mary Bell, und was gone. * 8 @# @© *# «# @ HERE was a bit of swank in Henry's walk as he followed the porter, staggering under the weight of Henry's kit bag and suit edse, down the steel steps of the Pennsylvania train shed to hia compartment in the St. Louis express. He was comparing the circumstances of this journey from New York to Midvale with the circumstances of that other journey—the journey from Mid- vale to New York. He was proud to imagine himself, in the imported tweeds of a famous tailor, trained, ex- pert, successful, beside the boy of ninetcen in his shiny outgrown blue serge suit, raw, frightened, heartsick —the boy who had sat up all night in the smoker of a slow train in order to save the price of a mere upper berth. And this last evening in New York! He had been free to choose trom all the delights that the metropolis of- fered, and he had chosen well: he had spent the last four hours in the com- pany of a charming woman, spent them as a man of the world would spend them. How perfect a contrast to his last evening in Midvale, when he could hardly keep back the tears because his Uncle Andrew had refused to advance him as much as $50! In the morning, after he had bathed and shaved and breakfasted, Henry sat looking ont of the window and in- dulging himself in the luxury of im- agining what had happened in these fifteen vears to the boys he had known in the high school. There was Con Rivers, whose father had been Presi- dent of the First National, Could Con ever have amounted to anything? And his Uncle Andrew. Was he still run- ning the reed store or had he achieved his dream of an apple orchard in Idaho? And Jud Killit, who had gone to work in Cronin’s drug store. Had Jud ever succeeded in becoming u reg- istered pharmacist? At the Midvale station an eager taxi driver grasped Henry’s bag and suit ease, “Wabash Hotel, sir?” : said Henry. When he had lived in Midvale the National [House had been the leading hotel ang the railway station had been of wood in- ftead Gf limestone and you rode up in a yellow bus. He recognized Main Street fast enough, in spile of the brick pavement and the twelve-story office building that stood where Cro- nin’s drug store had been, and the traffic policeman. He had written his name on the hotel register and been assigned the sitting room, bedroom, and bath he had asked for when Theodcre Camp came rushing in. “I'm awfully sorry,” said Mr. Camp. “I don’t know how we missed you at the train. Shan't we go right up to the Midvale Club for Tunch? fH have your things sent out to our house at once. You must spend the wetk-end with us.” Henty was pleasantly conscious of the clerk's awe, Theodore Camp was the most important man in Midvale. It was not often he grected strangers in this fashion. Henry graciously ac- cepted the apologies, He was really startled at the mag- nificence of the club to which Camp drove him. Henry had never belonged to a club—a real club. “The town couldn't have laud it,” Theodore t'amp admitted, “Bunt three or four of us got together and put up the money.” ENRY enjoyed the luncheon, Four of Camp's executives Were there—men = o proved woility, all older thin Henry. None wis a New Yorker. They asked him large questions about the trend of business enterprise and lis- tened cagerly to his replies. “And this Henry thought, “is the board of the largest and most success- ful business in Midvale. And they alt defer to me!” Tey took Henry through the shops where the Camp Motor Horn, the Camp Pumper, Camp Spotlight, the Camp Gas Tank Plug, the Camp Windshield, the Camp Speedometer, and all the other Camp Specialties were made. When they had seen the plant they stopped in the conference room just off the President's office to look over the advertising the Camp Motor Ac- cessories Corporation had been putting out—tts catalogues and booklets and folders; above all, the full pages in the magazines. “It sold the stuff,” said Theodore Camp. “But—! dunno—it hasn't the class.” “Of course it sold the stuff," said Henry. “The space would do that. And the copy isn’t bad. But it could be better. It should have distinction. It should be more interesting too. Above ah, it needs atmosphere—-the atmos- phere a fine product deserves.” “Exactly.” said Theodore Camp. “You've hit the nal! on the head. At- mosphere is what we want. That's what we want you for.” * e ° ¢ © UNRY smiled. Kiverybody nodded his head in \visorous assent, They recognized in him the expert—the New York expert Ilenry was content. “Now,” said Theodore Camp, “we'll go out to the Country Club and we won't say another word of business un- til Monday morning. I want sou to see what the Middle West is like, Mills.” He turned to the little group. “Boys,” he said, “this man is a New Yorker. You know: how he hates to leave Broadway and the cabarets and all . Od -. oe