The Waterbury Democrat. [volume] (Waterbury, Conn.) 1917-1946, 1932-02-27

But Barclay himself had no such
fears. He moved In a different
world than his employees. He would
have been amazed had he dreamed
of the complicated feelings of many
of them, of their bitter narrowness,
Of their jealousy and envy of those
more fortunate. He was too nat
urslly modest to imagine that his
comihgs and goings, however tri-
vial, were of absorbing interest to
scores of men and women who had
never met him. Nor did 1t occur
to him that he might be subject
ing girl to the breath of scandal.
But as Ellen sank back into the
soft depths of dove-gray cushions
and turned her rosy face to him he
felt a pang as Of anticipated pain.
And he believed then that he had
been unwtse.
he had been SO uneasy and so rest
less after Ellen had left his office
that afternoon; he had not known
why the routine business of the
store had become SO suddenly un-
important or why the hours had
dragged 80 endleSsly. But he knew
now ais Ellen shyly smiled at him
that he felt that same light rest
lessness that he thought had left
him years ago.
And that was impossible. He was
81. Ellen was young enough to be
his daughter. Almost roughly he
leaned forward and gave the driver
directions for reaching Dreamland.
Then he offered Ellen q cigaret and
pulled out the lighter for her no
one would have guessed that he
imagined he had, in the brief space
of seconds, put away from him a
small. vague dream.
4 don't SMOKE" Ellen told him.
His brows went up quizzically.
II thought all young girls smok-
ed nowadays"
mot all of them. I'm not well
off enough to smoke"
At his look Of surprise she ex-
planned. "You see the people we
live among and, for that matter, my
family, to, are SO poor that we
must be respectable. On any de-
batable point - like smoking for
women - we're all ultra conserva-
tive. Not, she added still in that
light strain, that 1 lie awake
nights longing to smoke. I don't
like 1t really. If did I'd smoke"
"I'm sure you would. But I'm
rather glad you don't. I can't get
used"
He broke off abruptly and
thought that there was no use ap-
pearing in her eyes as an old fogy
even II he were old enough to be
her father. With Ellen's permits
sion they drove through Central
Park before going to the dancehall.
Central Park in the languid twi-
light was relaxed and quiet after
the fierce heat of the day. On the
bride paths there were a few horse
back riders, their habits crumpled,
their horses at an apathetic trot.
. But neither the horses nor the rid
ers appeared to be enjoying them
selves.
The benches were crowded with
workers who had stopped on their
hurried way home to draw what
solace htey could from the dusty
green Of the park. The air was
shrill with the confusion Of child
ish shouts. Scores of children ran
up ana down the footpaths and
scattered about the lake, sending
out 6A1A&AA 0Ooto VII shO Ps&SAu oAA =
face.
Darkness drew in and lights be-
gan to pierce windows Of the giant
apartment houses overlooking the
park. A light breeze sprang up.
One by one the benches were emp
tied. The last toy boat capsized on
the lake. The last cross and sleepy
child was dragged away to supper.
The park grew quiet.
The limousine swished to stop
at the Casino where early diners,
men and women in evening clothes.
leaned across softly lighted tables
talking and laughing. Ellen and
her escort went inside for iced
drinks. Neither them was hungry.
Ellen looked around with wide
eyed pleasure at the other diners,
successful men and lovely. we'll
dressed women. AS her eyes re-
turned to the handsome man oppo-
site her she began to feel singing
in her heatr.
a.. A. L. ~ 80