The Press., 1920-07-15
PAULA THE
 POET. 
By DOROTHY DOUGLAS.

Paula was curled up on the wide couch by the window. scratching odd ments of inspired thought.
 Beth, most understanding, capable, moodless q chum that an cratic poet ever had. was busy preparing q dainty and nourishing evening meal
 Paula was a girl of brilliant intel- feet. wonderful in poetic fancy but ut teriy and completely lacking in the do- nestle virtues. She. could no more have cooked the little meat loaf and biscuits that were scenting the apart ment than she could have put out to sea In the R-34. Her taste n clothes was simply a wish to cover herself de. gently. and her hair was long and nat ural and wound about her head in the particular way that it happened to go And she wore ordinary boots. not san- dalS
 But Paula could write poetry.
 Beth possessed all the artistic tastes that go to produce perfect type of temperamental poet. Her hair was tarnished and most becnmingly bobbetl. Her orange nnd black slnocks were poems of batik art and often while en- tertaining at tea she wore an adorable Chinese mandarin. from which her lit- tie feet peeped out from the wide trou- sers like captive butterflies. There was always incense burning when Beth was around.
 But Beth could cook. make wonder fui clothes. entertain with great sue cess. and she was u delightful bit of the feminine world to have about the house.
 Beth could not, however. have writ. ten a poem any more than she could have put together the parts of their joint fiivver.
 Here's another man person want ing to meet the poet, Paula." called Beth as the postman left his wares at the door. He has. been reading your verse for two years and Is coming from the middle West just in the hope that you will give him the pleasure. etc, etc." Beth finished off with a laugh. "Oh-to have some great Vest ern cowboy consumed with passion for me-just once"
 Paula. too. laughed from her nest of brilliant-hued cushions that Beth had made, but her laugh was a trifie impa- tient.
 "I just can't be bothered meeting all these perfectly strange people all the time. You've no idea what . mum feel listening to their rawlings. I have absolutely nothing to say to them, and my poor brain struggles for converse tional niceties and very nearly pass out in the attempt"
 That's what you get for being 6 genius" said the unfeeling Beth. "The penalty for writing boiling. scorching love effusions which you no more feel than do is to have to let all the strange men In the world come and gaze into your soulless eyes" p You have all the soul and scorchinS emotions for both of us," laughed Paula If we each had temperament and moods, then, honey, we couldn't live together so happily" She jumped | up and just as Beth was about to take | her hot biscuits from the oven Paula l swept her into an encircling arm. You're q little duck" she said affec- l tionately. "and wish just for once you would meet this Western cowboy as Paula. When Beth had rescued the biscuits she turned questioning eyes on Paula.
 "H you really mean it-it would be bit of a lark. I have all the earmarks of . poet-nuttiest of nuts"
 So 1t happened that the two girls exchanged identities, and never were two more aliuring personalities trans ferred for the mere sake of joggling the credulity of Western cowboy.
 And the heart of the Western cow boy. who went by the name of John Rylance, was most assuredly rampant when he found two delightful girls waiting to receive him at tea. The small apartment was curiously home like. Rylance felt decidedly at home even before he was directed by Beth toward the great cushioned chair in the sunny window.
 Paula had met the big ranchman with her habitual calm exterior, but within her brilliant brain there was an instant desire to write & splendid poem. She effaced herself behind a wall of concentrated thought that left Beth a free hand to weave her net about their visitor
 Ryiance realized that his interest was straying from time to time from the animated Beth to the strangely magnetic personality of Paula. It was true he had come from the West to meet the poet who had set his heart to singing by the mere printed words of her Songs In Exile," yet now as he sat looking into her piquant little face with its frame of bobbed hair he felt more definitely the lure of the other girl.
 And yet this girl who had been introduced as Paula Raymond was the exact duplicate in appearance of the type he had expected. There was the stamp of Greenwich village on her and the undoubted charm of character. That which was lacking. Rylance could not define. He knew that while he talked with her he was constantly longing to probe the mind of the quiet, interpretive. apparently disinterested girl whom he had met as Beth Good win
 And the real Beth's alert senses caught the vague disappointment in. the Westerner's mind. She knew that his soul and the soul of Paula the Poet had found something that had made al meeting of the physical beings neces-I sary. It had been the lure of Paula's soul that had dragged him all the long way from the West. and now, he was struggling against . vague regret that hs had come.
 Into the mind of Rylance came . short verse of Paula's that had always moro or less puzzled him as to her e1- act meaning. The words of the verse could be taken as the reader chose. but somehow Rylsnce felt a keen desire to