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Show By ELINOR MAXWELL G O ARCADIA HOUSE PUBLICATIONS WNU SERVICE SYNOPSIS Mary Loring and her father, Jim, an Ineffectual attorney, meet a train which brings his wealthy sister-in-law, unmarried unmar-ried Linnle Cotswell and her Iriend. Le-lia Le-lia Ormsby, divorcee, for a Christmas visit. Waiting at home for them are Mary's mother, her younger sister, Ellen; El-len; her father's nagging maiden sister. sis-ter. Aunt Mamie, and Peter, the baby of the family. At the depot Dr. Christopher Christo-pher Cragg helps the guests with their luggage. Mary Is secretly in love with Doctor Cragg. In leaving, her Aunt urges Mary to visit her in New York, but Mary refuses. Mary works In a rental library, where she spends her spare time writing short stories. Mary's father is let out as railroad attorney, the fees of which were almost the sole support of his family. To earn money she decides to begin writing in earnest. Mary feels sure that her newest story. "At Sea," would please the editors of National Weekly. After finishing it she calls Doctor Doc-tor Cragg, who comes to the book store for a current novel. Falling from a ladder lad-der while getting his book, she regains consciousness to find his arms around her. He tells her he loves her, and then tells her he is to be married the coming month to a girl he has known all his life. Despondent, Mary decides to accept her Aunt Linnie's invitation. In New York her aunt laughs at her for her plans to write, and insists that she meet as many eligible men as possible. The new week brings two letters. One, from the National Weekly, with a $100 check for her story, makes her deliriously happy. hap-py. The other, from her sister, tells her that financial conditions at home are getting worse. The next day. at a party given by her aunt, Mary meets distinguished distin-guished Jerome Taylor, wealthy middle-aged middle-aged man-about-town, and effusive Count Umberto Balianci. The count's oily manner man-ner nauseates her. CHAPTER V Continued The Mulatto woman consulted the names on the envelopes with maddening mad-dening precision, finally extending a letter towards Mary. "Just one, honey. Looks like a man's writing, too." Mary caught the letter from the long, olive-tinted hand. "I hope it's from my father," she said, almost as if to herself. Dad had not written writ-ten to her since her arrival in New York, and she was hungry to hear, In his own words, how he was getting get-ting on. It was from her father just one page of his small, scholarly handwriting hand-writing neat, modest, suppressed, like the man himself. She read, with affectionate eagerness, what he had to say. My own little girl: Your money-order for eighty-five dollars dol-lars came today, and It is with inexpressible inex-pressible embarrassment, and deep gratitude grat-itude that I am accepting this loan from you. There is no use trying to conceal from you that I am terribly hard-pressed, and that your generous offering has arrived as something of a god-send, but Mary, I shall pay you back. I am doing everything I can to make a contact, and hope for something good to break this week. Don't, I beg of you, ever mention to your aunt the straitened circumstances in which I through my inadequacy have thrown my family. 1 could not bear the chagrin of having your dear mother's sister know the true state of our financial affairs, let alone suiTer the embarrassment of an offer of help from her. Try not to worry about us, dear. Have a good time while you may. Something, I am sure, will work out for me soon. Mary placed her unfinished piece of toast on the blue Spode butter dish. She could not eat any more. Her ravenous young appetite had deserted her. Poor Dad, trying to "make a contact" at his age! Hoping Hop-ing for "something good to break this week!" Begging her never to divulge to Aunt Linnie, who could so very easily spare a thousand or two thousand dollars to relieve, at least temporarily, the devastating worry that gnawed at his heart and mind! No, she would not "let on," by word or act, how desperate the Hawkinsville situation was. She would never betray Dad's confidence, confi-dence, or do anything to hurt his pride. Hastily, she picked up the breakfast break-fast tray, with its powder-blue dishes and silver coffee pot, and car-r car-r ed it to Addie, who forthwith remonstrated re-monstrated with her for "doin' my work." Then, returning to the sunlit living room, she placed the typewriter type-writer on the table, inserted a sheet of white paper and put on the glasses which Ellen said made her look typically librarian. She had an idea for a plot a simple idea, but so had been the idea for "At Sea." Mr. Buchanan had liked that well enough to accept it. Her story was to concern a little boy whose mother and father were on the brink of a sensational divorce. di-vorce. Just as tilings were reaching reach-ing a crisis, he was hit, but only slightly injured, by an automobile, and this near tragedy brought the parents together again, the tale concluding con-cluding in a sane and happy manner man-ner for all concerned. Fifteen minute later, she was still waiting for an introductory line that would inspire within Mr. Buchanan an avid interest to read the rest of the story, but the portentous words were fearfully slow in coming. At last her fingers fell upon the keys, and sharply tapped out a sentence a sentence that did not please her in the least, but which would simply have to do for the time being. She would have to get on. She couldn't sit there all day, waiting to begin. Paragraph after paragraph slowly slow-ly but surely stretched themselves over the pages, but the story unrolled un-rolled with painful effort. "I've waited too long since the last one. My thoughts simply can't get down to business. Too many things have happened to me since I wrote 'A; Sea.' If only I'd begun another story the very day after I finished that! I suppose your mind's just like any other kind of machinery. You've got to keep it working all the time, or the wheels get rusty, and are hard to start up again." Mary worked on "Their Son" again the next morning, rewriting whole sentences, transcribing phrases, deleting de-leting words that appeared unnecessary, unneces-sary, but the conformation remained the same, and she could see no wav in which to improve it She was not satisfied with what she had done. The story lacked something. At one o'clock, she put it aside, telling herself her-self grimly, "I'm so saturated with the thing that I can no longer look at it from an unbiased standpoint. I'll go out for a walk. Maybe the fresh air will drive the cobwebs out of my brain, and I can get to work on it again tonight with a fresh outlook." Then, she suddenly remembered re-membered that Aunt Linnie had made an engagement for the evening eve-ning with Umberto Balianci, and, with a sigh, she resigned herself to I ''UIIIIf pi 'f I f mm jf I She settled herself in an armchair arm-chair and began to read. waiting until the following morning to work on the script again. Balianci called for them at seven, just shortly after Lelia had ensconced en-sconced herself comfortably in bed with Somerset Maugham's new book at her side, and a tray of delectable food over her knees. "Well, thank heavens, I'm not going out with you and Linnie tonight," she said with a mischievous grin. "Aunt Linnie said to wear a street dress," Mary remarked. Lelia yawned luxuriously. "Oh, of course, with Balianci footing the bill! He will, no doubt, treat you to an eighty-five cent table-d'hote in some wretched place in the Village, Vil-lage, and smugly feel that you and Linnie are in his debt for the rest of the winter. He's so accustomed to having somebody else pay the check that, when he does come across with an invitation, he damn' well sees to it that his output of cash is of the smallest possible denomination. denomi-nation. He's a sponger, darling, looking for a rich wife, and nobody no-body on earth can make me believe anything to the contrary." Mary pulled on her Lapin coat, and caught her gloves up from the dressing-table. "You do look cozy, Lelia," she said, "and heaven knows I wish I were staying at home tonight instead of going out into that horrid, raw weather. I'd have liked to work on my story." "The afternoon paper says we'll have a regular blizzard by morning," morn-ing," Lelia' announced, crunching a Julienne potato with tantalizing enjoyment en-joyment "Thanks be to Allah for my bed and board! See you later, my dear, unless you get lost in a snowdrift I doubt if Balianci has the price of a taxi!" Balianci had the price of a taxi, or else had decided to spread himself for the evening, for, upon descending descend-ing to the street, he ordered the doorman to whistle for a cab. "Cor-liani's," "Cor-liani's," he told the driver, "in the Village." A startled look sprang into Linnie's Lin-nie's eyes, but was quickly, diplomatically, diplo-matically, succeeded by a smile. "Corliani's, Balianci?" she inquired brightly. "Is that a new place?" Balianci plumped himself down on one of the small side seats, and lighted a cigarette. "It is a place I have but recently discovered. Miss Cotswell. and the food is most excellentcooked excel-lentcooked as only the chefs of my country can cook. I thought perhaps per-haps Miss Loring would like a bit of atmosphere something different from what she has been accustomed accus-tomed to seeing and doing since she has been in New York." Corliani's was crowded, garish, and shabby, and the bare wooden tables were set so closely together that it was almost impossible to wedge a way through them. Sputtering Sput-tering candles, set in wine bottles, furnished the only illumination, and the air was heavy with the stale, accumulated smell of garlic and cigarette cig-arette smoke. Mary wondered, during the long, spasmodic serving of the meal, if they were going some place later on, but her speculations as to that were soon brought to an end by Balianci's saying, a tentative tone in his voice, "The weather, it is execrable. ex-ecrable. Should we not be happier to remain here for the evening?" Miss Cotswell, who had scarcely touched her food, replied that perhaps per-haps they would, lit a cigarette, and sat back resignedly in her chair. After which, Balianci divided his attention and his eyes equally between be-tween the tawdry floor show and Mary. Once, during the evening, he put his hand over Mary's as it lay on the table, caught it to his lips and murmured, "A hand so beautiful, it needs no jewels." Mary hastily withdrew her hand, and the corners of her mouth twitched with amusement as she thought, "Just as well since I haven't any!" "You are so right, beautiful lady," la-dy," Balianci continued, his voice reminding Mary of the purr of a large Maltese cat. "The lily should never be gilded." Miss Cotswell caught Balianci's eye at this moment, and neatly conveyed con-veyed to him by her expression that his remarks were not altogether to her liking. Eventually, at eleven o'clock, she rose. "We must be getting home," she said tersely. Balianci managed to squeeze into the same seat with the women on the homeward trip in the taxi, and to take advantage of the closeness of the quarters by pressing his shoulder rather too tenderly against Mary's. "He can't be doing it on purpose," Mary told herself. "It's simply that this seat is so narrow." Miss Cotswell turned abruptly, just as they reached the elevator in her apartment house, and extended extend-ed her hand to Balianci in an undeniable un-deniable farewell. Later, in the privacy pri-vacy of her apartment, she said to her niece, "Umberto was loping right along with us into the lift. No doubt, he intended to come up for a nightcap, but I couldn't stand another an-other moment of his company. Dreadful evening, wasn't it?" Mary, warming her chilled fingers before the dying fire on the hearth, smiled. "Maybe it was for you, Aunt Linnie. You're so accustomed to nightingale's knees on toast that I can imagine how low-life you consider con-sider a place like Corliani's. As for me, however, it was rather fun. Remember, Re-member, hot chocolate and salted crackers at Bowen's drug store have been the high points in my night life for years! I'd never tasted real Italian food before, and I was even intrigued with some of the rather strange-looking creatures that practically prac-tically sat in our laps." For some inexplicable reason, Mary woke at six the next morning. Lelia and Miss Cotswell were, of course, still asleep, and even Addie could not be heard stirring about. The script of "Their Son," which she had tucked away in the bottom drawer of her bureau the day before, be-fore, sprang to her mind, and with a sudden spurt of energy, she decided de-cided that now, in the early hours of this cold morning, with not one sign of life to disturb the calm, was the time to read it over. She could look at it from a fresh viewpoint, and, no doubt, discern in its structure struc-ture glaring flaws which she had been too weary to notice the day before. be-fore. A second later, she settled herself her-self in an armchair before the living liv-ing room window and began to read "Their Son." It really went rather smoothly, she told herself. The phraseology was perfect; her choice of words, beyond criticism. "I shan't do another thing to it" she decided. "It's as good as it'll ever be, and it may be far better than I think. I'm going to submit it to Mr. Buchanan today, and it's got to sink or swim." With eager fingers, she slipped it into a large, manila envelope, and, securing Aunt Linnie's fountain pen from the tray of odds and ends on the desk, wrote across its front in large letters, "Mr. Phillip Buchanan, The National Nation-al Weekly." "I'll take it to him myself," she thought, "and if he's not there, just leave it with his secretary. I wish it were later. I don't suppose these editors ever think of rolling into their offices until at least ten. Well I'll just have to take a long bath, eat a long breakfast and spend an hour getting dressed. Maybe that'll consume the time between now and then!" CHAPTER VI It was half past ten, and Mary sat with flushed face and icy hands In the reception room of The National Na-tional Weekly. She had arrived exactly ex-actly at the stroke of ten, and, after aft-er giving her name to the efficient receptionist, had been told that Mr. Buchanan was in, that he was occupied occu-pied at the moment, and to sit down, please. Two other persons had now entered en-tered the reception room; a good-looking good-looking young man with an intense air; a swarthy girl of twenty-five or so. "But I'll be next," Mary told herself excitedly, her hands like blocks of ice beneath their tan suede gloves. The other callers had disappeared through mysterious doors and Miss Hickenlooper, the secretary, was now speaking through one of the telephones tel-ephones In response to a buzz that had resounded throughout the reception re-ception room. "All right. Miss Loring," Lor-ing," she said. "Your turn now." Mary jumped to her feet dropping drop-ping her purse as she did so. Miss Hickenlooper raised a supercilious eyebrow. "Your purse. Miss Loring," Lor-ing," she said coldly. "And you'd better take your coat with you." "Hateful woman!" Mary thought, her face suffusing with a deep red. "She probably knows I'm excited." "To the right, please," Miss Hickenlooper Hick-enlooper was saying. "Office at the end of the corridor." "Thank you," Mary said coldly and, elevating her chin ever so slightly, stepped through the door that led into the working quarters of The National Weekly. Offices opened off to the right and left of the long narrow hall but, with eyes straight ahead, she made for the one at the end the sanctus-I sanctus-I sanctorum of the lot the office of Phillip Buchanan. She stood in the doorway an instant in-stant before the man at the desk became aware of her presence. He was scanning a typed letter, and a deep frown made a furrow between his eyebrows. He looked austere, and Mary, none-too-assured at best, felt increasingly nervous. He was younger than she had expected to find him, perhaps thirty-five, and his hair looked sunburned, as if he had just returned from a fishing trip in Florida, which, indeed, he had. Suddenly, he glanced up, and seeing see-ing her standing there, rose hastily from his chair, a puzzled expression on his face. He was taller than one would have judged, seeing him sitting down, glaring at that letter. let-ter. He was as tall as Chris. "Is this Miss Loring?" he asked, and the fear that he had inspired in her was instantly dispelled. His voice was kind, young with the faintest trace of a Harvard accent. (TO BE CONTINUED) |