Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1907-05-05
Copyright 1905, 1907
By Little, Brown & Company.
BOOK |.
CHAPTER I.
A Society Scandal.

of many climates he looked like man
ready to face all hardships, equal to any
emergency. Already one seemed to see the
clothes and habits of civilization falling
away from him, the former to be replaced
by the stern. unlovely outfit of the war
correspondent who plays the game. They
crowded round him in the club smoking
room. for these were his last few minutes.
They had dined him. toasted him, and the
club loving cup had been drained to his
success and his safe return. For Lowell
was popular member of this very Bohe-
milan gathering. and he was going to the
far east. at few hours notice. to repre-
sent one of the greatest of English dailies.
A pale. slight young man. who stood at
his right hand, was speaking. His name
was Walter Aynesworth, and he was
writer of short stories-a novelist in en-
bryo.
What I envy you most Lowell" he de-
clared. lis your escape from the deadly
routine of our day by day life. Here in
London 1t seems to me that we live the life
of automatons. We lunch, we dine, we
amuse on we bore ourselves and we sleep
and all the rest Of the world does the
same. Passion we have outgrown, emo
ton we have destroyed by analysis. The
storms which shake humanity break over
other countries What Is there left to us of
life? Civilization ministers too easily to
our needs. existence has become a habit.
No wonder that we are tired race"
Life is the same. the world over an
other man remarked. with every for
ward step in civilization life must become
more mechanical. London Is no worse than
Paris. or Paris than Toxic"
Aynesworth shook his head. 81 don't
agree with you." he replied. 'It Is the
same. more or less, with all European
countries. but the Saxon temperament.
with lis mixture of philosophy and philis-
tinism. more than any other. gravitates
toward the life mechanical. Existence here
has become fossilized. We wear a mask
upon our faces; we carry a gauge for our
emotions. Lowell Is going where the one
great force of primitive life remains. He
is going to see war. He is going to breathe
an atmosphere hot with naked passion; he
is going to rub shoulders with men who
walk hand in hand with death. That's the
sort of tonic we all want. to remind us
that We are human beings with blood In
our veins. and not sawdust-stuffed dolls"
men LONeH DIOhe SlitHCe ne LOOK MS
pipe from his mouth, and he addressed
Aynesworth.
Walter, he said, you are talking rot.
There is nothing very complex or stimu-
lating about the passion of war. when
men kill one another unseen; where you
feel the sting In your heart which comes
from God knows where. and you crumple
up, with never q chance to have go at
the chap who has potted you from the
trenches or behind rock. thousand
yards on. Mine is going to be, except
from a spectacular point of view a very
barren sort of year. compared with what
yours might be if the fire once touched your
eyes. 1 go where life is cruder and fiereer
perhaps. but you remain in the very city
of tragedies" ,s---s-
Aynesworth laughed. as he ht fresh Gig
arctic
"City of tragedies" he exclaimed. ut
sounds all right, but it's bunkum all the
same. Show me where they lie. Lowell.
old chap Tell me where to stir the
waters
Several of those who were watching him
noticed sudden change in Lovell's face.
The good humor and bonhomie called up
by this last evening amongst his olu friends
had disappeared. His face had fallen into
graver lines. his eyes seemed fixed with
curious retrospective steadiness on a huge
calendar which hung from the wall. When
at last he turned toward Aynesworth, his
tone was almost solemn.
Some of them don't lie so very far from
the surface Walter he said. There Is
one''-he took out his watch-"there Is one
which. II you like. will tell you about. L
have Just ten minutes"
''Goodr"
Go ahead. Lowell. old chapr'
Have drink frst!''
He held out his hand They were all
silent. He stood up amongst them, by far
the tallest man there. with his back to the
chi xr-r,fao nd hi
about that calendar.
Thirteen years ago." he said, two
young men-call them by their Christian
names. Wingrave and Lumley-shared
somewhat extensive hunting box in
Leicestershire. They were both of good
family. well off. and fairly popular. Lum-
ley the more so. perhaps. He represented
the ordinary type of young Englishman
with a stronger dash than usual of selfish
ness. Wingrave stood for other things.
He was reticent and impenetrable. Peo-
pie called him mysterious"
Lowell paused for a moment to refill his
pipe. The sudden light upon his face as he
struck a match. seemed to bring into vivid
prominence something there. indescribable
In words, yet which affected has hearers
equally with the low gravity of his speech.
The man himself was feeling the tragedy
OF the story he told
They seemed" he continued, always
10 get on well together, until they fell In
love with the same woman. Her name we
will say was Ruth. She was the wife OF
the master of hounds with whom they
hunted II had the story writing gifts of
Aynesworth here. / would try to describe
her. As haven't. / will simply give you
crude idea of what she seemed like to me.
She was neither dark nor fair, short nor
tall: amongst crowd of other women she
Seemed undistmguishable by any special
gifts: yet when you had realized her there
was no other woman In the room. She had
the eyes Of an angel only they were gen.
orally yelled; she had the figure of a
miniature Venus, soft and with delicate
curves. which seemed somehow to be al
ways subtly asserting themselves. although
she affected in her dress an almost puri-
tanical simplicity. Her presence in a room
was always felt at once. There are some
women. beautiful or plain whose sex one
scarcely recognizes She was not one of
these, She seemed to carry with her the
concentrated essence of femininity. Her
quiet movements. the almost noiseess rus
Ting of her clothes. the quaint. undistin-
guishable perfumes which she used her
soft. even voice. were all things which
seemed individual to her. She was like a
study in undernotes. and yet''-Lovell
paused a moment-"and yet no Spanish
dancing woman. whose dark eyes and vo-
limit ha,r .