Evening star., 1922-01-01

a One-step next. Perhaps you'll be
better at that"
I-Ithink I'd like to see how i,
goes first" says willard.
! But after few minutes of watching
he concluded that he didn't care te
| dance any more. In fact. just think.
| ing of his first exhibition on the hool
Of the Plutoria grill got him pink In
| the ears
why" says he, Il must have made
show of myself. II didn't know
! was such back number. Trilby.'
{ oh. what's the difrerence?" says
i You don't know any Of these people
! What do you care for lot Of
. strangers"
Willard wouldn't lie cvnsoled
though. He's sensitive plant. al
right. and if he hadn't just ordered
about three dollars worth Of tea and
toast believe he would have sneakeG
(! out then and there. AS it was he
! slumped in his chair and watched
the dancing fascinated.
Look at those girls" he gasped
| What bold, hard faces they have
But suppose most Of them are pro.
i observation-disclosures girls and actresses
aren't they"
Just fiappers." says l.
''Oh, I'm sure some of them must be
actresses" insists Willard.
Well. what them" says 1. Are you
actress shy?'
oil 10
I wouldn't care to get mixed up with
with that sort of persons, you
know"
How quaint" says 1. people used
to talk like that, but I thought such
ideas had gone out. Perhaps. though,
you've had bitter personal expert
ence. Willard"
NO." says he promptly. "But 1t
isn't Just an old-fashioned prejudice
of mine. either. Maybe you never
heard of Freddie Benson? No? Well.
he was in my class at Northwestern
and one of my best friends. Bright,
clever young fellow: good family and
all that. Went into his fathers busi-
! ness after he graduated and was sent
on as assistant manager of the New
York branch. You know Benson
blankets. Freddie got mixed up with
an actress. Spent a fortune on her.
Had to forge checks to keep up the
pace. Simply ruined him. OF course,
all actresses are not like that. but
they-they're expensive acquain-
tances."
"Really." says I, smothering q chuc-
kle. "Perhaps you think I'm an ex-
pensive friend, too?' And I glanced
| at the walters check Willard was fin
gering.
''oh, you!" says he. you're differ
ent, Trilby. And I guess can stand
this sort of thing-er-once in a
while. Anyway. want to see a lot Of
you while I'm here. Got to make up
for lost time. How about getting of
for one evening and going to q play
with me? Something good"
SORRY" says I, ''but Sunday night
| is the only one have off,"
"a little late supper somewhere
then?" he goes on.
It'll tell you," says I, getting a
sudden hunch. IF you're bound to be
a real sport I'll meet you at II to-
night at the Sheridan Square subway
station, uptown side. And I'll stake
you to a theater ticket myself. Oh
it isn't going to cost me anything,
It's a play written by a friend OF
mine. The Prince and the Flapper.
| They say it's rather good. It's down
! in Greenwich village. you know, and
all you have to do is call at the box
: Office. I'll arrange to have the ticket
waiting for you. Then afterwards
the little supper. Eh?
It sounded good to Willard. He fell
for 1t. And when I got to my dress
ing room that night sent word to
the Office to have a front row aisle
| seat saved for a Mr.. Bigler, who
would call. So at precisely 1853 that
, evening, when I dashed on as the
FIapper, willard got the prize jolt
| of his whole career.
= - y
| rUsT how soon he recognized ms
sitter came on I eouldn't Judge