Plentywood herald. [volume] (Plentywood, Mont.) 1908-current, 1931-10-29

though he has confidence in his para
chute. She remembered that Bill was
going to fly this weekend for the first
time. The people he was to visit had
just bought a new plane. Ordinarily
the thought of his going up would have
frightened her. Now she couldn't get
owe the perfectly terrible fact that
nothing seemed to matter.
After all, it should matter, shouldn't
it? She and Bill had been really in
love with each other. He had come
from Cincinnati and she from Balti-
more, but they had, through relatives,
the same kind of background. They
had married, they liked and respected
each other, they both had the same
kind Of delicate stomachs when it came
to drinking too much, and even the
same n of humor. Heavens! If los
ing all this didn't meal anything, if
there was nothing solid or permanent
to all this, then there was nothing solid
or permanent to anything.
Maybe that's what people meant by
growing up. AS a young person, she had
felt safe, with certain things like the
love of her parents, her belief in a
happy future, making bulwarks for her
security. When you grew up, however,
it became hard to tell the unreal from
the real. Reggie, for instance, whom
she was actually thinking of marrying,
seemed like a ghost to her when he
wasn't actually present.
She felt very old to be only twenty
six, in her shoulders and limbs she
became aware of the heavy bones. But
she caught sight of Reggie Fishers pic
ture on the wall, the sleepy-lidded eyes
very steady and sympathetic in spite of
the knocking smile under the small
black mustache, and she began to feel
better.
If she had kept this feeling for Reg
gle so long, with practically nothing for
it ever to feed on; and if Bill had con
tinued to feel as he had about this girl,
whom he hadn't seen for years-it was
entirely possible that something better
would come from the change. This, of
course, had been in the back of their
minds when they had talked 1t all out
with such deadly calm.
Come on" said Bill, rushing into the
room, the square watch in n hand.
We've got to hurry!"
She followed him to the elevator. His
striped tie was hanging over his vest.
She didn't say anything. She was WON
dering if he would ever learn to take
care of himself without her. That girl,
after a while, would be cross with him
for things like that instead of loving
him for them. Well he might as well
begin learning.
He was silent beside her as the ele-
vator dropped. She knew, if she told
him now that her uncle had promised
her to let him draw the plans for the
big hotel, it would tangle him all up.
And for this reason she almost said it
just to see. But, no; it meant too much.
1t would mean money and indepen-
dence for him instead of the little he
got now from the architect firm. 1t
meant that he could afford to marry
an expensive girl like Margie. To Bill
and herself, if things hadn't changed,
it would have meant-yes, even when
nothing seemed to matter, this stirred
q faint hurt. After all, she had really
wanted a child. Bill had stipulated for
more money first, and while they wait
ed the child had turned out to be Bill
himself. Now she was losing them both.
No, she wouldn't tell him. He would
have to learn of it indirectly and feel
no sense OF obligation.
AS the metal box fell through space
she experienced, In a sort of clairvoy-
ance, the brief session in which they
had talked things out with such perfect