The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1921-03-04

MISS lmOgene .sEameIas 1nOTutOn uut
after she had finished spying from the
window on the movements of what
she supposed was Mr.. Randolph and
what, in reality, was Mr.. Patrick
O'Reilly in Mr.. Randolph's best top
hat. best suit of evening clothes and
overcoat, best gray silk muffier, price
twenty-five dollars, and best patent
leather shoes-the last a very tight
fit which made the revamped gentle
mans gait a cross between that of
chicken on hot stove and drunk
on his reluctant way home.
Even the unsuspecting Miss Thorn
ton was puzzled by that hating loco
motion in connection with what she
knew of Mr.. Randolph, but she added
it, two and two, with the mysterious
twenty minutes spent by that gentle
man and the driver In the recesses Of
the cab, apparently to settle a differ
ence in ideas as to the value Of a
waiting taxi, and decided that poor
Mr.. Randolph must have issued from
the interview in semi-crippled state.
She herself was too excited to- let
pity altogether absorb her. Without
waiting for either the tortured way
farer or the taxi to get quite out Of
sight, she dropped the window curtain
and turned to possess herself Of her
world of comfort for a night. A
starved instinct led her straight to
the luxuriously appointed bathroom.
AS previously intimated, she turned
on the hot water and clasped her
hands ecstatically as she watched its
crystalline surge and imagined she
could smell the opalescent steam.
But not for long was she inactive.
Having surrendered to circumstance
to the extent Of promising to stay in
the fiat until ten the following morn
ing, she decided to do the job whole
heartedly, for Imogene Pamela was
one of those lucky and fated young
women who can never give themselves
by halves. If happiness so much as
showed its nose, 1t was her nature to
tackle blindly for its waist and go
to the mat for the immediate present.
Consequently, let not her modesty
be misjudged when it is related that.
in the short time 1t took to fill the
bath. she accomplished the following:
Rooted out Mr.. Randolph's best silk
pajamas, found his softest bathrobe,
filed hot-water bottle and slipped 1t
far down between the too cold linen
sheets of his big bed. Continuing at
this rate of achievement, it may be
imagined that in ten minutes more the
young lady, having bathed, was curled
up and sound asleep. Not on your
life!
Item: 1t took her, twenty-one min
utes by the clock to scrub out the
memory of the scabby zinc bathtubs
of many years. Itcn: Twenty more
ininutes to wash her hair. Item:
Half an hour more to scrub her under
wear and stockings. Assorted items:
Various pauses during which she
shamelessly looked at herself in full
length mirror of such pure rejecting
qualities as had not crossed her path
since England was pup. After that,
long. enhancing item, called "dry
ing her hair"
Did you blame her, three lines back,
in your heart for her frequent inspec-
tiOns of self in the mirror? If you
did, look at her now! Mr.. Randolph's
10 hnnhn Sc af har moi ct or
tied tight to keep it from trailing on
the floor; for almost like reason.
its sleeves are rolled up above hel
elbows. 1t is open in a v at the neck.
showing the adolescent curve of
virginia. but much excited bosom.
With woolly towel In both hands,
she plants herself before the staid old
looking-glass and gives it such treat
as it has never before savored in its
sixty-two years Of service to the Ran
dolph family. Rub. rub, rub with the
towel. Her cheeks grow pink and
pinker, her eyes round and rounder.
They twinkle and smile, and once,
when she made a little face at her.
self, they laughed out loud. Her hair
slowly wakes from its stringy damp
ness until it, too, bursts into sort of
light and curly merriment. Pamela
puffs out her cheeks and blows at it's
reflection.
When all the rubbing Is done, even
to the last rite where they divide the
fragrant flood into two waves falling
over the bosom and mercilessly knead
the damp ends between folds of the
dryest bit of the towel, she drops that
implement and runs into the big room
where the dying open fire blinks its
red eye as though it had been waiting
up for her.
The writer-who is privileged, for
the benefit Of large and growing
public, to see her in his minds eye
as her pink bare feet pad up and down
the room. racing every time they come
to the home-stretch between the I'M
peopled grandstand of the couch and
fho FRO onH than do,,hIinU c,,ddo1Iv