San Antonio light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1911-1993, 1925-08-23
The Married Life of
Helen and Warren
: By MABEL HERBERT URNER--
Helen Helps the Poor
A MOTHER scorching day!

ing.
Not a breath of air! The null
curtains hung limp and lifeless.
Almost a week of this whiting
enervating heat-and no relief in
sight!
YEARLY she rose, lowered the
awnings, and drew down the shades
The room, now dim, at least
seemed cooler.
Warren still asleep, one arm
flung over his flushed face.
She would not wake him for an
other hour. Sunday mornings he
was always irritable.
And last night-that rich shore
dinner! They had all eaten too
much-too many courses. And again
the Wintons had let Warren pay
the bill!
A cold shower relieved her heat
drugged lcthargy, but not her sense
Of depression. She could have cried
from an unreasoning but acute des-
pondcncy.
She was slipping on a cool blue
dimity when, from the bedroom,
came Warren's Querulous call.
what time is it?' he yawned, as
she entered the darkened room.
"After 0. l thought I'd let you
Sleep"
Cant sleep in this hot-box. Put
up those shades. Why shut out all
the air"
'The sun was right in your eyes.
1 was afraid it would wake you"
"Jove. I've a splittin' headache.
This internal heat"
Dear, that dinner-ice cream
after all those clans. 1 begged you
not"
Now, don't start on that"
irately, scratching his head. What
1 eat never hurts me-"
"But fish or any kind Of sea
food-with ice cream! Why, it's
poisonous 81"
Rot! Anticipated notion! Moth
ing ever hurts you unless you think
it does. That's your spiel-but you
don't put it into practice"
"Yes. 1 know" laying out his
fresh madras underwear, "but you
needn't mix food that you know
doesn't combine"
Get some ice water. No, orange
juice-lot of ice"
As he slumped into his bathrobe,
Helen ran out to the kitchen where
Anna was Smelling peas for dinner.
"Mr. Curtis is up now, Anna, you
can start breakfast. That tomato
omelet-I told you about that last
night. He likes it with plenty of to-
matoes. Where's the ice pick? Well,
try to keep it on this nail, then it's
always there"
Anna, never loquacious, was even
less communicative than usual this
morning. She, too, had had a Sat
urday night out.
These oranges haven't a bit OF
juice" Helen squeezed the second to
make half a glass. They're not
sending US good fruit lately. I'm
going to try that Italian place in
the next block"
But Anna, now measuring out the
coffee, was glumly unresponsive.
Back to the bathroom with the
ice-tinkling glass.
Warren was shaving, his face
screwed into a ferociOus grimace.
Dear, here's your orange juice.
DO YOU want it nOw?"
Set it there from the lathery
mask. How bout my flannel suitT"
1T just came from the cleaners.
I'll lay it Out--and your white
shoes"
Warren in white had always an
athletic, Out-of-doOr virility. And
when a little later he STROBE in to
breakfast, Helen was conscious Of
a fluttery thrill.
The grcen-striped awnings, the
CAV geranium window-boXeS, the
CLINT OF silver and mahogany-an at
tractive summary setting for his
white flannels.
"Oh, dear, a breeze!" as the
dotted Swiss curtains stirred faint
". Its not SO warm in here
mot, eli? Bet it's 80 this min
ute" his scowl imputating her.
That was always his Sunday
morning attitudc--inyariably aggra-
waited by her efforts at Precipitation.
The mullins and coffee, usually
targets for his acrimony, were this
morning unassailable. And the ONE
let. now brought on, was invitingly
garnishcd with tomatoes.
Helen relaxed. One Sunday morn
ing without an explosion over the
breakfast
'Just a little for me, dear" as
he divided the omelct. I'm not
bit hungry-after all that dinner
last night"
Now, tune off on that dinner!
Anything morc'n two courses-you
thinks n banquet. Here, what's
wrong with this?" shifting at the
omclet on his fork.
why, dcar-what?" with n swift
return Of her Sunday-morning
anxiety. Isn't it all right?'
"Soured !" he snorted, pushing
back his plate.
"Sourcd? Why, dear. It can't"
A faint but nauscous odor Of
fermentation confirmed his verdict.
"Did you ring, ma'am?" cTud-
ing luminosity at the insistcnt sum
mons.