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Show STORY i 1 JKXUffWf ' r larararaTiJ tut: piLC-crnx or kioise. When X last visited Phoaba . I was true with the change which aha had made In her cozy eitting-room. I know that la not the proper word, but what doea it matter bo long- aa It expresses the idea? . I have known Phoebe for I beg her pardon. I hava known Phoebe slnca aha waa 14. During tbaVthne I have been able to form a pretty accurate opinion of her. Having known a girl for eo many yeara (In order to feel quite honee I hava written the real figure on my blot-tlng blot-tlng pad, where It will be seen by nobody), no-body), I usually feel Justified in accepting accept-ing a new departure without surprise. Any ono who haa knovto Phoebe for the same length of time would feel the tame. Still, when, aa I have said. X last visited visit-ed her I wa surprised to find that -Instead of the pale blue or. old rose which aha had formerly affected in her scheme of decoration, the whole room waa lit with a pale gold.! The wall paper waa a pale yellow picked out with full-blown rosea of a darker ahade; the lamp shades were In the form of primrose; the white paint of the woodwork, even, caught the reflection re-flection and possessed an added delicacy. For the number of years from when she waa 14 to now, to be exact I have never been astonished at anything she chose to do. For the first time the change staggered ma. "Isn't It charming?" said Phoebe, aa I aat down with a alight gap. . . The only adjective I could remember waa quite inadequate. "Guess what, it means, " waa her next remark. I thought a minute, and remembered that for the last six months the room had been a pale rose. . "I am ao sorry." She was surveying the ' room with pride, but looked back to me quickly. "What for?" ee said, aa ungrammatically ungrammat-ically aa the jackdaw of hollow memory. mem-ory. "About the lamp," I answered. "The lamp?" ahe queried. "Yea; that the lamp ahould have smoked and spoiled It." I answered. "It looked so pretty." When Phoebe looked acornful (you can take it from m'l you wish you hadn't spoken. I wished I hadn't spoken then. Suddenlv realizing what waa expected , of me, X hazarded: - "The expectation of a future." I was so obviously flabbergasted (as she herself her-self would say) that eh never even accused ac-cused me of sarcasm. . "Look at me" she aaid. It la a proceeding to which I have never had any objection. I looked. She waa dressed in a dark red drees, nearly hidden with crowd of soma filmy white material. She always wears filmy things. ' ' "It is a passionate soul In the icy grip of realism,"- she informed me, gravely. If any one can tell me the correct retort re-tort to such a statement, I shall be glad. Again I looked round the room, and my glance retted on the piano. Thanks-, I suppose, to its iron frame. It managed to support a small florist's shop of whlt.e yellow and bronze chrysanthe-. mums. The back was draped to match her dress, dark red shining through white and gold. Jt looked so charming that I could not-emppresa not-emppresa an exclamation of approval. "You know George Fan-ant?" ahe asked. I bowed stiffly, for I do not like G. T. "He has written a song to carry out the Idea of the room." she went on, and having given me some tea, went over to the piano. I put down my cup and listened. Dvorak Dvo-rak himself, I believe, would have found It difficult to discover any melody in the music, and as for the words well, they were just like George Farrant The first verse went something jlike this: "As I sit at the edge of the flame, , Rushing, the wind goes past; Catching, however. I strain All of my hopes In Its blast. Ah. Love! Could I see thee again. Feel but they hand In my hand, So would I -give All my life That I might live For thee. Ah. Love!" The "Ah, Love" was repeated about six tlrr.ep at the end of each verse. I heard two, but that Is no reason why everybody else should suffer. I do not know how much more George Farrant had written like that, but the second verse proved pretty conclusively that he had exhausted bis Ideaa when he finished the title. As she roe from the piano I took both her hands in mine. "Phoebe" I said, and If ever a man put his bouI Into. one word I told her then-how then-how I hate George Farrant. I peemed to eee the whole of the room at once, the white and yellow toning down into a rich gold. "A pas-ionate-soul In the ley grip of realism! Does it feel like that?" I a?ked. Just then her mother came In, dreseed In a particularly bright heliotrope. "Yes" gasped Phoebe. We both looked at her mother. After the due formalities she sank back into an armchair which the filled. "Your new drer-s has come, Phoebe," she raid. I had hastily dropped "the pasrtonate soul's" hand, and felt that some remark was needed from me to relieve the tension. ten-sion. "What does it me?.n?" I cried. 1 It was Phoebe's turn to look grateful, . and the did it to perfection, while her mother explained the drers as lucidly, as In possible for a woman. "It is all black," the said, "covered with sequins of gold and Jet. The bod-Ice bod-Ice is swathed across with white ro?e-budp, ro?e-budp, and there is a garland of white roses on the phoulder." I looked at Phoebe inquiringly. "It Is the birth of golden hope from the darkness of despair," she explained, rolemnly. "Will you write me a song ; for It?" Very guardedly! promised to try-I try-I really did try, but I never got any farther than the study of a dressmaker's dressma-ker's bill, which I have lately had to pay never mind why. London Free Lance. |