Plentywood herald. [volume] (Plentywood, Mont.) 1908-current, 1927-05-27

And after all, what is a lie2 TITS but
The truth in masquerade.
Byron: Don Juan"
w yHEN you come right down to it,
\A/ it has always seemed to me that
w the attitude of the French stage
toward a young woman who
wishes to act is Just as narrow minded
as the attitude OF some of our bucolic
Legislatures when they attempt to pre-
vent a man from smoking a cigarette.
Liberality is letting people alone, whereas
the Gallo insistence upon gallantry-a
reverse Puritanism you might call its
simply a blue law turned topsy-turvy.
All this was brought home to me a year
ago when. in Paris, / happened to run
across Celia Vaughan at the Hartley
Johnsons.
Hartley Johnson is an American etcher.
Physically-mentally too-he is a de-
lightful round, fat forid man with a
thin. delightful round, fat florid mar
with a thin. delightful wife who reminds
you OF a piece OF cloth of silver torn so
as to leave soft ragged edges. The ford
husband and the hin wife live in a sill
yer apartment the walls are covered
with chocolate paper on n of the
Islands that divide the Seine, and in win
ter their windows look out upon q silver
scene: the river hurrying past, naked
chestnut trees, gray bridges, the gray
towers OF Notre Dame rising above gray
huddled buildings. A consummate place
In which to gather on a Sunday after
noon and turnt he silver into gold with
lamps and drinks. And on this January
afternoon the effect of gold against q
silver background was heightened by a
young woman who. her back to the bro
cade covering a piano. drank tea absent
mindedly while she talked to a couple
of young men.
A very gold young woman, this gold
accumulated by a tight fitting black dress
and q small black hat that brought into
relief the whitest possible skin, q touch
OF color In the cheeks. and. as far as /
could judge, real bronze hair. Indisput-
ably, however, there were brown eyes
and dark eyelashes. Russian, perhaps.
could not tell. There was something
about her That assured me she was not
french. l asked Johnson. He raised his
head.
"Oh, that that's Celia Vaughan.
A young American acting over here. Want
To-" But I cut him short. Eyes, right
away. I know all about her. / told her
uncle l would look her up"
We approached the piano and Celia's
brown eyes widened into a smile and
she put down her tea cup.
Nov that's stupid of me-" I thought.
Here's a beauty, and here I've been for
over two months intending to Gale and
haven't don't it."
Celia spoke in a lovely voice Just a
trifle blurred with accent.
You haven't been very nice, have your
Uncle Tom wrote me you we're here n
would come to see me. I've been expect
ing you daily"
I've been so terribly busy"
Slim eyebrows became quizzical.
Every afternoon, too? Well. never
mind. You don't loo a bit like Uncle
Tom, do you? Most Of his friends do"
"Oh. rs sorry"
II wouldn't be-"
I / walked home with Celia largely
because / had so it. The
history of this child seemed to me inter-
esting. / am free to admit that 1t would
not have seemed SO interesting If Celia
hadn't been SO lovely. but since she was.
a delayed vicarious avuncular instinct
asserted itself. / began to feel warmly
responsible to her Uncle Tom, whom I
detested and who had assumed no re-
s~ponsibility himself whatsoever. Celia
appealed to me as wistful, a feeling /
have to guard against as / am reaching
the age when all young women, and most
older ones as well. appeal to me as visit