The Washington times., 1933-08-19
BY joan
Clayton

The great night came at last.
Patricia was dressed and ready,
Haverholt'S orchids were at her
shoulder, his afternoon words Of
caution and advice were ring.
ing in her ears, her cheeks were
blazing, her heart was pound
ing, her hands were cold as ice.
She went downstairs to join
the others. Florists boxes lay
unopened in the foyer, boxes all
for her. She spared them not
a single glance as she trailed
into the living room where
Haverholt and a dozen Of his
most ardent supporters had
gathered. They were pledging
victory in champagne.
"Skoal," said Julian and
raised his glass and looked at
the lovely trembling girl, who
faced him and drank too.
TOO bad" someone said,
glancing toward the windows,
too bad it's raining on your
night of victory"
THAT won't matter" replied
Julian, arrogant and confident.
"We'll have a rain-proof gall
lery anyhow. I hear the police
are calling out reserves"
They laughed, all except Pa
tricia. She leaned back against
a marble mantel, white and
still. Deep circles ringed her
eyes. Except for rouge her face
was entirely colorlesS. She was
overwrought to a condition bor-
dering on hysteria. Burning in
her veins was the excitement
of physical strain too long en-
dured. Julian regarded her
anxiouSly.
"Are you tired?" Patricia?"
Are you nervouS?"
I'm so tired that I can hard
ly stand, so nervous that I
can't stop this shaking. See!
Isn't it ridiculous?'
The man was worried and
feared 20 let her see his worry.
How, in this state, could she
play bridge? With unusual con-
siderateness, he fetched her
wrap himself, wrapped the
folds of fur about her, told the
others shortly that he and his
niece would drive to the hotel
alone.
Just a Game
Patricia grew a little calmer,
got a firmer grip upon herself
as she and Julian drove through
the coldly falling rain, secure
and snug in the familiar limou-
sine. At least, she stopped the
shaking. A thousand times she
told herself that this was just
game, just the game of bridge
that she had known from child
hood, the same old game de-
spite it's modern trappings, de-
5pite the tons of ballyhoo.
Julian said repeatedly: do
your best, Patricia, that's all
you need to do. Your best is
good enough for me. It will be
far too good for Blair and San
ders."
Apparently he had no fears on
his own account, Apparently
the same old egotist.
The rain was pouring now,
drumming on the roof. The
streets were black and glisten-
ing. The windshield wiper
Wnirred. Julian gripped her
hand very tightly. He had said
his say.
They reached the Beveridge.
Patricia stepped from limousine
to curb, prepared to make run
for it. She stopped bewildered
as flashlights doomed and peo-
pie shouted.
A policeman bbed her
arm, fought with her through
the crowd which jammed the
sidewalk and surged against
the ropes stretched to the en-
u oAANC OA UA4C 41OUCAs OI1lO4 4C44dS
struck her in the back as
people pressing forward sought
to shake her hand. Gosh,
we're famous" she heard Ju-
lian's voice just behind her.
She heard other mingled voices,
shouts and cheers. The po-
liceman wedged her through
the door.
The splendid lobby of the
Beveridge, large as it was,
looked tonight like the Long
Island station on a summer
Saturday, packed to the very
walls. A roar went up as the
two appeared, the white-haired
man and the flushed, bewil-
dercd girl.
There she isl"
That's Patricia HaverhoIt!"
"The man behind her, the
white-haired gent, is Julian Hav-
erholt. I got fifty bucks on
him."
Patricia was nodding, bow
ing, smiling. Was this the
game of bridge? No, this was
ballyhoo!
ITO Be COntinued)