The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965, 1930-07-23

might have starved, but we wouldn't
have minded i'll"
mo, we wouldn't have minded it,
she echoed. And suddenly the au-
tumn evening seemed sad and bleak
and helpless to her.
Nov We talk of more waiting!'
he said bitterly.
THE laSt!" A sigh followed the
brave words. There was little
silence.
you think we ought to do it?"
he said, ending it.
Il am beginning to think so, Sidl''
And for a moment they stood
looking at each other, keenly, ire
mendous things unsaid between
Once her breast rose on a quick
breath, as if she would add some
thing to what she had said, but
the sentence died unborn. They
had waited a long time and fresh
waiting was ahead. There was moth
ing to say.
Suddenly Patricia found herself
close to tears. Her eyes were filling,
her mouth unsteady. She gave him
quick pressure of small gloved
hands and shaken smile. The
gate clicked and the doorway of the
boarding house showed her slender
figure for a second, silhouetted
against a faint hall light. Then
the door closed.
CHAPTER THREE
TN the warm and odorous hall of
L her Boarding house, the girl hes
itated. Dinner, with a great clicking
of plates, was in progress below
stairs. But Patricia was not hungry,
and she slowly and YEARLY climbed
the two flights to her own room.
1t was a small room, shabby and
crowded. The walls were vague,
flowery paper, the curtains were
limp. There was wide couch with
Bagdad tapestry over it, a rock
ing chair and a washstand half
hidden by Stenciled burlap screen.
A large bureau was wedged in beside
the bed and the wall; hinged gas
bracket could be moved to light the
mirror or the book of a person
lying in bed.
Under the window was big trunk
covered with a steamer rug, and in
this trunk we're papers, silver,
forks and spoons, old jewelry and
odd bits of lace, all that was left to
the daughter of Colonel Alexander
Ingoldsby CheSebrough and Marie
Louise Page, his wife.
Sometimes the lonely occupant ct
this room opened the trunk and
filed he'd lap with daguerreotypes
and old letters, with cardcases OF
flligree silver and necklaces OF Jet
and gold. She would unroll the
heavily fringed brocade that had
been her mothers wedding gown
she would sigh over the gloveboX
from the Orient and the Doulton
tea cups.
Here was the CheSebrough family
tree, done upon parchment, here
was the coat of arms and a faded
photograph of the old Virginia
home, with hoop-skirted ladies in
colored sacqueS posed upon the en-
trance steps.
All gone-everything gone. There
we're few oil portraits hung in
Cousin ChriStine'S house, there were
some mahogany chairs in Uncle
Paul's attic. That was all.
Tonight the girl did not open the
trunk, but she sat upon it and put
her elbows on the high window
sill and looked down over the tops
OF maple trees into shabby, old
fashioned York street. The autumn
night was cool, but voices and foot
steps echoed below her and in the
pools Of light under the street lamps
cats preyed upon circling moths.
With wild whooping the neigh
borhood gang of boys tore by: the
giddy. pretty Gordon girl slipped
toward the drug store and chocolate
Sundaes with her latest beau.
1t came to Patricia, with a sudden
rush Of pain and rebellion, that she
never had been so much alive as
this passing group of young gang
Sters, and as this common, noisy
girl about whom nice women
talked" She had always been a
Chesebrough, restricted, digniied
obliged to hold aloof.
Rich women and ide women had
set the pace that she must keep
Because they did not care to dc
certain things, she must not dc
them Because publicity was vulgar
Patricia must starve rather than
hold the family pride less than
sacred.
=
THEY had let her come to 81,
Il they would let her 90 to 81.
shabby. scrimped, Inundated. Out
Of Uncle Paul's half million, out of
Cousin Christine's half million, out