New-York tribune., 1921-02-20

dreamed than written: the story of
the old home town. You have
dreamed it yourself-dreamed of
going back to the old home town
and looking down from the heights
Of your achievement in the great
world on those cramped and un-
imaginative souls who once looked
on you with a skeptical eye, and of
doing something handsome for the
one person who was nice to you.
This story doesn't often come
true in actual life. So many of us
who dream it never succeed as COM
pletely as we'd like. Those who do
succeed on the grand scale lose the
sting of their desire. And though
the voice of the old home town
mocks US all down the years, few
listen-save in odd moments. We
don't go back. We idly dream the
dream or read the story instead.
Only Bill Torrance did go back. He
had to go back.
THE first scene is Blondin's--
which is certainly the most per-
feet restaurant in New York and
perhaps in the world.
Bill Torrance had chosen to take
Clare Sulloway to Blondin's because
she was the sort Of a girl to whom
he wished to offer the perfection
that only Blondin's affords, but es-
pecially because he wished to tell
her formally that he loved her. Bill
Torrance had endeavored to pro-
pose to Clare on a dozen different
occasions-once at the Empire
Theater when Ethel Barrymore was
doing Barrie play there, and once
in the lobby of the Ritz while they
were waiting for Clare's mother,
and once at the third hole at Stony
Brook when there was a foursome
waiting to drive, and once in the
Italian garden of her country place,
and once in a hanson cab in Cen
tral Park. But Bill wanted to say
the words, and he couldn't, and he
didn't know why; he wasn't ordi-
narily an indecisive person. they
said of Bill Torrance that he could
walk (walA slowly but without
stopping) through the machine
rooms of any good-sized factory
making typewriters or motorcars or
rifles or vacuum cleaners or lathes,
and be prepared to order changes
that would increase production
20 per cent. He charged 5000 a
day for doing it and had more work
than he could take.
He and Clare were very jolly to-
gether, They had known each other
for two weeks. And the dinner was
Blondin dinner. But Bill didn't
propose to her. Instead he found
himself talking about altogether
trivial things-such as the curious
fact that no two tables 1T Blondin's
were the same size and shape-and
thinking about quite serious things
such as the night he had f1ippej the
outgoing freight in the yards al
Sloan, with Tim McGoorty a YARD
behind He didn't want to tell Glare
about that part of his life. He had
yer told anybody about it. HI
had tried to forget it. Why was il
always running in his mind wher
he was with her?
Clare had such steady eyes ant
such red mouth; Clare was sucl
q live thing and so happy; Clare hat
never KIN own what it was to have {
bad conscience. They went from
Blondin's to Park Avenue in taxi
cab. 1t Occurred to Bill Torrance
that this was as good chance t
tell Clare as any, Twice he bega,
firmly: Glare, L" But the res
i. of the sentence wouldn't come, ant
he had to make up something to fill
the gap.
He dismissed the taxicab--it wa
only 10 o'clock, and he knew Clar
would ask him up--and entered tn,
lobby Of the apartment building a
which he had called thirteen time,
in fourteen days. The elevator hat
gone aloft; for moment they wer,
alone in the lobby, alone with tn,
bay trees in their tubs and the ech,
Of their own footsteps on the tiles
and in that moment the lights wen
out. Instinctively Bill took the hal
step to Clare's side; his shoulde
touched hers; his arm went arount
her waist without volition. For per
haps five seconds they stood in thu
complete darkness of the lobby, fac
ing the glass doors of the entrance
family outlined by the street light.
of the avenue. Bill felt his knee:
tremble, felt his heart thud, anc
from long way off he heard boys
whistle. the shrill whistle that is