White Bluffs spokesman. [volume] (White Bluffs, Wash.) 1907-1938, 1931-10-22

dfeD TOT neT own, Donna mad had
them painted and hung there, one
either side Of the enormous fireplace.
She had meant them to be gift to her
mother, but Sabra Cravat had re-
fused to take them.
Don't you like them, Sabra darling?
They're the best things Segovia has
ever done. Is it because they're mod
ern? think they look like the kids
don't you?"
They're just wonderful"
'Well, then?"
"Td have to build a house for them
How would they look in the sitting
room of the house on Kihekah! No,
let me come here and look at them
now and then. That way they're al
ways fresh surprise to me-"
Certainly they were rather surpris-
ing, those portraits Rather, one of
them was. Segovia had got little
Felice well enough, but he had made
the mistake of painting her in Span
ish costume, and somehow her angular
contours and boyish frame had not
lent themselves to these gorgeous lace
and satin trappings. The boy. Yam
cey, had refused to dress up for the
occasion-had, indeed, been impatient
of posing at ALL. Segovia had caught
him quickly and brilliantly, with
startling results. He wore a pair of
loose, rather grimy white tennis pants,
a white woolly sweater with a hole in
the elbow, and was hatless. In his
right hand-that slim, beautiful, speak
ing hand-he held limp, half-smoked
cigarette, it's blue-gray smoke spiraling
family, it's dull red eye the only note
of color in the picture Yet the whole
portrait was colorful, moving, alive.
The boys pose was so insolent, so
1.-THE, so careless. The eyes followed
you. He was a person.
''Looks like Ruby, don't you think ?"
Donna had said, when first she had
shown it to her mother.
"Now Sabra had replied, with
enormous vigor. "Not at all. Your
father"
'Well-maybe-a little"
"a little You're crazy! Look at
his eyes. His hands, OF course they're
not as beautiful as your fathers
hands were-are ;"
1t had been five years since Sabra
had heard news of her husband, Yam
cey Cravat. And now, for the first
time, she felt that he was dead, though
she had never admitted this. In spite
Of his years she had heard that Yam
cey had gone to France during the
war. The American and the English
armies had rejected him, so he had
dyed his grazing hair, lied about his
age, thrown back his still magnificent
shoulders, and somehow by his eyes,
his voice, his hands, or combination
Of all these, had hypnotized them into
taking him. An unofficial report had
listed him among the missing after the
carnage had ceased in the shambles
that had been wooded plateau called
the Argonne.
"He isn't dead" Sabra had said,
almost calmly. "When Yancey Cravat
dies he'll be on the front page, and
the world will know it,"
But a year had gone by.
The Oklahoma Wigwam now issued
morning as we'll as an afternoon edi-
tion and was known as the most pow
erful newspaper in the Southwest.
When Sabra was in town she made a
practice of driving down to the office
at eleven every night, remaining there
for an hour looking over the layout,
reading the wet galley proof of the
nights news lead, scanning the A. P.
wires. Her entrance was in the ma
ture Of the passage of royalty, and
when she came into the city room the
staff all but saluted. True she wasn't
there very much, except in the sum-
mer, when congress was not in session.
The sight Of a woman on the floor
of the congressional house was still
something of a novelty. Sentimental
| America had shrunk from the thought
| of women in active politics. Woman's
| place was in the home, and American
| womanhood was too exquisite flower
| to- be subjected to the harsh atmos-
| phere Of the assembly floor and the
| committee room.
| Sabra stumped the state and devel
oped a surprising gift of oratory.
Perhaps it was not altogether what
J she said that counted in her favor.