Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1929-03-19
Rita's White Hands.

~ FORGE watched his wife as she
stood facing the group of peo-
n pie. In the intervals between
~ her reading he frequently
forgot just how nice she could
look. He felt puzzled at the
vast difference between Rita in the
home and Rita in public. He didn't
pretend to listen to the long and ex-
ceedingly sentimental selection that his
wife was giving; he cared nothing for
poetry. He was comparing her modish
appearance with the bizarre lady of the
breakfast table. Then her rest robe
had given him an uneasy sense because
of its casual fastenings and the metal
wavers In her hair had impaired
weird look TO her small head. Her run
over slippers had lost the ribbons and
were tied with raveled rags of different
colors. And George knew that had he
disparaged this frugal habit OF using
rags, she would have pleaded economy.
At this point in his reflections he
sighed, quite forgetting where he was.
He was thinking of the cold cream
that she lavishly applied at night and
which she seemed reluctant to wash off
before breakfast. In fact, she often
permitted it to remain all morning and
the city SCOT had a way of mingling
with the emol,ient. George didn't espe-
cially enjoy Sundays for this reason
he liked to have woman look sweet
and neat at table and the belated meal
Sunday mornings did not make for ap-
petite. At least, the breakfasts she
served were not sufficiently ultra to
cause any oblivion to surroundings:
II wish" he spoke aloud, with Vi
cious emphasis. that / might never
again see an unlocked cereal" the
&c ,fr ,t1r1r
recalled him to his surroundings and
he slumped down into his chair, rosy
with embarrassment.
And the slim creature in softest silk
with cleaning wavy hair read on SOUL
fully, waving a white hand to accen-
tuate a passage.
That white hand deepened his sense
of injury The brief admiration caused
by Rita's appearance had vanished and
his thoughtless speech, aloud, further
annoyed him. why must she keep her
hands so sacred?" he asked himself.
After all, our hands are supposed to
be given some employment. Suppose
/ suddenly shut up my shop because
the work spoiled the shape of my
fingers?" He grinned involuntarily. but
the remembrance of the sticky gloves
worn by the interpreter of poetry lin
gered. Rita disliked scrubbing or wash
ing because it spoiled her hands. Sew
ing pricked her fingers and dishwash-
ing was done only because she knew a
housemaid was entirely out of the ques-
ton. When all the dishes were soiled
she piled them in the sink and ran the
hot water over them and then picked
them out disdainfully to dry. The
gloves, worn nights and at other odd
moments when she sat plunged in SOUL
full reflection connected with her read
ings, had left trail of marks on the
doors; the telephone, especially. was
smeared with cold cream and George
had learned to wipe it off before at
tempting to touch it.
The reader closed the exquisitely
bound limp-leather volume: ITO me
that Interpretation Is wonderful. Life
is what we make it. A wretched affair
Of makeshifts and worries or some
thing ideal Each glorious day should
be filled with beauty'-she hesitated
with gentle smile-"or, at least. that
is my conception of life Life should
be the Interpretation of beauty"
The overdressed guests of Mrs. Ran
dali Tremaine clapped decorously. Mrs.
Tremaine was wealthy woman who
demanded constant f1attery and adula-
ton. Her friends were composed of
group of climbers, who hoped to enter
the sacred portals of society by cling
ing to her scanty but exceedingly ex-
pensive skirts. Rita had been presented
to her as a striving young person. who
constantly reached for the better
things of life, and who-this was the
part that pleased the prudent Mrs.
Tremaine-would give readings abso-