The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965, 1931-04-29

"PVSA IOA by-kolx NCOnLllueQ)
CHE had no idea how long she lay
~ there. Exhaustion at last
stayed her weeping. Moonlight fell
across the bed when she finally sat
up, white-faced, and cried her eyes.
Gypsy heard a sound outside and
went to the window. She saw the
roadster. long, dark and purring
softly, slide down the driveway.
Perhaps Jim was going for Mar
cha. No, she knew instantly that
the thought was unworthy. How
ever Jim had wounded her, he still
was the honest, dependable, straight
forward man she loved. He was
not engaged in a cheap intrigue
With Marcia Phillips.
Gypsy sat on the windowsill and
looked out across the lawn. There
was a square patch of bright moon
light bordered by the shadow from
the hedge. 1t looked peaceful,
quiet down there. The girl drew
back farther into the shadow of
the room.
1t was strange that she should
not feel angry at Marcia. She
was not angry at any one. There
was no room in her heart for any
thing except the aching misery Of
losing jim. Losing? How could
she lose what she had never really
had?
She would love Jim always. She
was sure of that. The thought of
long days of bitter loneliness
stretching out ahead frightened her.
Gypsy hid her face in her arms and
wept silently
DRESENTLY she raised her head.
n She remembered the evening
when she had said to jim, "If you
ever regret our marriage I want you
TO tell me about it," And he had
promised that he would. Little had
she realized then what she was
bargaining for.
She told herself that she should
be making plans, deciding about her
future. That would have to wait.
What did she care about the future
now?
She heard the roadster come back
up the drive, but did not look out
the window. A little later she heard
Jim's footsteps on the stairs.
Gypsy clasped her two hands
tightly, pressing until the knuckles
ached as the footsteps neared her
door and then passed on. There had
been one breathless instant when she
thought Jim might knock on the
door.
The house became quiet, Gypsy
at last undressed. The lowered
chiffon which she had put on be-
cause Jim admired it was now
limp with tears.
AS she wrenched it to get it over
her shoulders, she heard the fabric
tear. She threw the dress on a !
chair and left it there, a wrinkled
heap, instead of hanging it away.
very weary, she drew down the
covers and got into her bed.
Over and over she tried to tell
herself that some time this knife
like pain would cease. She would
get used to it. Others had suffered
broken hearts and learned to en-
dure it. How literally true the
phrase was! A broken heart. Her
heart felt as though it were crushed
and bleeding.
Pride carried her through the
ordeal of the next mornings
breakfast, saying Good morn
ing" to Jim as though he had not
suddenly become a stranger, pour
ing his coffee, trying to drink her
own steaming cup while he sat
buried in his newspaper.
They might have been rehearsing
parts in play. Jim said good-by |
and added that he would have more
information about that matter"
when he returned in the evening.
Gypsy nodded instead of trusting
herself to reply.
She went about her customary
household tasks. So long as she was
busy with her hands she could fight |
off thoughts she did not have the
courage to face.
She avoided Matilda and Cora,
afraid they would notice her trimmed |
and swollen eyes.
BY mid-afternoon Gypsy was try
ing to find comfort in the thought
that out of the ruin of her own
dreams Jim would find happiness.
Jim's happiness should mean more
to her than her own. Then she
thought about Alan. Was Alan as
miserable as she, now that she had |
sent him away?
On sudden inspiration she went |
to the telephone. Crosby had told |
her he was stopping at the How
ard, an inexpensive hotel. Gypsy |
found the number in tn directory |
and called it.
May I speak to MIR. Alan
Crosby?" she said.