The Washington times. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1902-1939, 1923-04-08

Malcolm had left them behind. He
was fond of quoting Kipling: "He
travels the fastest who travels
alone!'
It had not been easy-to wait.
Particularly in those dangerous,
early years, before experience had
strengthened his defense.
Rita Involuntarily he
smiled as she flashed into. his mind,
and with her came the memory
of that night on the river, twelve
years before, when he had all but
asked her to marry him. 1t was
the Spring; the sap was rising in
the plants; the evening was full OF
the soft river smell. He had looked
down into her warm, dark eyes,
dimly welcoming in the dusk.
Across the years he remembered,
with vivid clearness, the tremor
that had passed through her as he
met her waiting glance. In his
low, receptive chair, he stirred un-
easily at the memory. It was a
narrow escape! He wondered
idly what she was doing that eve
ming. Married, probably, to some
poor devil who had long since
grown tired of her Still,
she had been very pretty-a pale%
mauve memory. /
On an impulse, he rose and
crossed to an old bureau. From
a drawer he took a little pile of
photographs. He glanced through
them and found the one he sought.
1t was too dark to see clearly, so
he switched on the light.
Poor little Rita!
She was pretty-that soft, dark
brown hair-just. as she used to
wear it!
He frowned as he realized how
very narrow had been the escape,
and dropped the photograph on the
fire. 1t curled up as the flames
consumed it.
Funny that on this night of all
nights he should have gone to
these half-forgotten photographs
One-a piquant, wistful little face
smiled out of the past at him.
Brighton was the background of
the-adventure. But it was years
ago, and the memory of it was
hazy, although at the time he had
loved her.
She was not a girl he could
have married; his good sense for
babe that. A typist, no use at all
to a rising barrister. Even while
he was in love with her he had
known that. She, it is true, had
had visions of a little house in the
suburbs, with a tennis-lawn-but
there had never been any danger.
He had just let himself fall
pleasantly in love.
If she had had any sense she
would have known that he was not
serious. She had been a bit up-
set at the end, but afterwards had
married a draper or something.
and probably had the little house
with the tennis court that she
wanted. He hoped so, anyway
He wished her we'll.
even as he dropped the photograph
into the fire, for Malcolm was a
man of generous impulses.
1t seemed rather a pity to burn
the photographs, but they would
have to go some time or other. It
would never do to have them about
after he married. His marriage
his ideal marriage-would have no
room for these pallid ghosts of old
romances. Not that they affected
him in the least, for nothing was so
dead, in Annis Malcolm's opinion,
as a dead love. And even at their
brightest they had been but tallow-
dips compared with the splendor
of the wonderful love that Anita
had brought into his life.
He looked at the clock; in five
minutes his car would be at the
door. He glanced hurriedly at sew
eral other photographs before
they passed to their appointed
end.
The last of the bundle was the
most recent. and if there had been