The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965, 1930-07-17

I I've treated him shamefuly.
can at least be brave enough to face
him, tell him how have wronged
him. and hear what he has to say
to me. 1t won't be pleasant. but
neither the pleasant nor the I'M
pleasant matters any more. Shall
we go?"
She tried to arise from the bed,
but could not do so unaided. San
yer raised her and supported her
as she stood. She looked terribly
fragile.
An yet. Cynthia told herself, there
could be nothing organically wrong
with the girl. A sensitive mind had
been wracked by grief until the
body showed the effectA
But a period of rest, of complete
relaxation, and of tender care would
drive morbidity out of her thoughts.
And with the departure of morbid
ity would come the return of health.
THIS was the girl with whom
l. Dean Carey had originally fall
len in love In another week she
would be just as pleasing to the eye
as Cynthia. She had done Dean a
great wrong, but not the ultimate
wrong.
She had been unfaithful in the
mind, but she had given only her
mind to Jennings. And Cynthia
believed that before Eleanor would
have surrendered more to Jennings
she would have come bravely to
Carey and told him her intention.
Dean was a chivalrous gentleman.
Eleanor's condition forbade harsh
ness from Dean. He necessarily
could be pityingly gentle toward
her. Then his gentlenesS would
become tenderness; tenderness
would revive love, and then passion
would sweep all memory of all
wrongs done to him.
A moment ago Cynthia had been
convinced that Eleanor would die.
She asked herself now if this con-
viction of hers had been in any
measure due to recurrence of
those hated thoughts which had
envisaged Eleanor dead.
And Tom SAWYER wanted her to
go back with them to either his or
Deans house!
Dean knew that she loved him.
Dean knew that she had meant to
yield herself to him tonight. Her
face burned with shame.
AS Sanver'S back was toward her,
she slipped through the door.
Face the man who would know
that she had been willing, aye
eager, to give herself, unwed, to
him? She would rather die.
There we're stairs near Eleanor's
door. She ran hastily down them
and out in to the street. Her great
adventure was ended. For her no
more Of high and dangerous ro-
nance, but the drab reality OF life.
The bored clerk at the desk
sensed the entrance Of romance and
mystery into a dull existence.
Cynthia's hurried flight across
the lobby might mean quest for a
doctor or a clergymen or even-he
had a glorious imagination-a po-
liceman.
The woman of mystery upstairs
might be anything or might have
done anything. The clerk never had
happened to see Eleanor, or the
resemblance between the guest in
81 and the woman who fed into
the street might have aroused
speculation more fanciful still, but
which yet could not even have ap-
proximated reality.
DUT he was of that class which
D seldom permits its imagination
to stimulate it into physical activity.
So that when SAWYER, a minute
later. dashed up to him and asked
in which direction the girl had
gone the clerk w unable to answer.
SAWYER, on the sidewalk, could
see no sign of Cynthia's scurrying
figure. She might have turned south
upon MacDougal street or she
might have gone toward Sixth ave-
nue..
There happened TO be few pedeS-
TRANS on the street, ana II Sne was
still in view he knew that he could
have distinguished her, even at
night, from any one else. But she
had taken full advantage of the
minute of Roadway. She was gone!
It might be that he could make
lucky guess as to which direction
she had chosen and overtake her.
But in the meantime there was his
own daughter. flesh of his flesh and
bone Of his bone. helpless upstairs.
Her morbid talk had alarmed her
father: that death for which she
seemed so impatient might be ad-
vanced by some act of hers. With
heavy tread he turned back into
the hotel. He knew that Cynthia
never would voluntarily return
Cynthia had gone toward Sixth
avenue. AS she reached the ele-
waited s'eirs a backward glance told