The Chanute times. [volume] (Chanute, Kan.) 1897-1913, 1909-06-25
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81. DZZW

| visiting Keatcham at the hotel; and
it wouldn't take Atkins long to piece
| out a good deal more, especially If his
spy overheard Tracy's phone. Well, l
shall warn Millicent-with fog-horn!"
The way he warned Millicent has
been related. But from Millicent he
DETECTED to another subject-the i'm
pulse of confession being strong upon
him. He freed his mind about the
stains on Cary MERGERS cuffs; and,
when at last he sought Millicent he
was in his soul praising his aunt for a
wise old woman. After justice was
disarmed by his miscomprehension of
Millicent's words, he took out his
cigarette case and began pacing the
garden walks, smoking and humming
little Spanish love song, far older
than the statehood Of California.
The words belonged to the air
which he had whistled weary week
ago. Young Tracy came along, and
caught up the air, although he was
innocent of Spanish; he had his man.
dolin on his arm; he proffered it to the
colonel.
Miss Janet has been singing coon
songs to his nibs, who is really getting
almost human" he observed affably;
well, little patience and interest
will reveal new possibilities of the
Fireless Stove! In man or metal.
Shall we get under his nibs' window
and give him the 'Bedouin Love Song
and I Picked Me Lemon in the Gar
den of Love and the Sextette from
Lucia and other choice selections? He
seemed to be sitting up and taking no
tice! let's lift him above the sordid
thoughts of Wall street and his plans
for busting other financiers."
The soldier gave this persiflage no
answer; his own thoughts were far
from gay. He stood drinking in the
beauty of the April night. The air
was wonderfully hushed and clear
and the play of the moonlight on the
great heliotrope bushes and the rose
trees, which dangled their clusters OF
| yellow and white over the stone para
pets of the balconies, tinted the leaf
age and flickered delicately over the
tracery of shadow on the gray walls.
Not cloud flecked the vast aerial
landscape-only stars beyond stars,
through unfathomable depths Of dim
violet, and beneath the stars a pale
moon swimming low in the heavens;
one could see 1t between the spandrels
of the arches spanning the colonnade.
Aunt Rebecca in black lace and
jewels was fitting with the world in
general and Millicent Winter in par
ticular; she displayed her most cyni-
cal mood. She had demolished
democracy; had planted herself firmly
on the basic doctrine that the virtues
cultivated by slavery far outnumber
its inseparable vices; and that most
people, If not ALL need a master; had
been picturesquely and inaccurately
| eloquent on the subject of dynamite
| (Which she pronounced the logical
fourth dimension of liberty, fraternity
and equality; had put the yellow rich
where they belonged; and the red
anarchists mainly under the sod; and
she had abolished the Fourth of July
to the last sputter of fire-cracker;
thence by easy transitions she had
extolled American art (Which Ameri-
can patrons were too ignorant to ap-
preciate), deplored American music
("The trouble isn't that it is canned"
says she, "but that it was spoiled be-
fore they canned it!") and was now
driving a chariot of fire through
American literature as for the acad-
emics, they never said what they
thought, but only what they thought
they ought to think; and they always
mistook anemia for refinement, as an
other school mistook yelling and per-
spring for vigor.
Just as Winter modestly entered
the arena, no less parsonage than
Henry James was under the wheels.
Janet Smith had modestly confessed
to believing him consummate artist;
and Millicent in an orotund voice de-
clared that he went deep, deep down
into the mysteries of life.
Il don't deny II; ne ought 10 get
down Deep" returned Aunt Rebecca
in her gentlest, softest utterance;
hes always boring"
Mrs. Melville's suppressed agitation
made her stays creak.
do you really think that James is
not a great artist?' she breathed.
81 think he is not worth while"
"Wow!" cried Tracy. "Oh. 1 say"
Aunt Rebecca; you cannot mean
=" this was Mrs. Melville, choking
with horror.
His STYLE" repeated the unmoyed
iconoclast. Ibis style has the remains
of great beauty; all his separate
phrases, II you wish, are gems; and
he Is a literary lapidary: but his SEN