Evening star., 1935-02-03
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.


istic decoration that she |
knew expressed her personality more
truly than either her friends or enemies
had yet suspected. White leather and
zebra skins jungle paintings, start
ling in somber and livid shadlngs. |
Black rugs edged with white, white
curtains piped with black. Teakwood |
and milky porcelains. A symphony |
of colorless symmetry, symbolic-any |
one who knew her newspaper associa-
ton would have said-of the printed
page that paid for them all. One way
or another. What she hadn't bought |
she'd taken in tribute from people |
she'd exploited, dealers, collectors, |
painters, sculptors. At other times
she had come into it gratefully, glad
of its cool refuge from the incessant
movement of her life. Tonight, how
ever, troubled by Dysart's attitude as
well as by the consciousness that she
had not yet telephoned her copy TO
the New York Office, she whirled
across the room to fling open win
dow, and stood beside it, gazing out
over the darkness of Rock Creek Park.
The storm that had been menaclng
the city for hours was breaking over
Maryland. She could hear the rumble
of thunder, and see the jagged flashes
of lightning. She could even smell
the rain. To the parched red clay
of the valley it was bringing relief,
comforting. Why wasn't there some
rain of the spirit that could bring
peace to people? Peace. That was all
she wanted. The peace of security
that shed never had with Tom Freer
living, that she couldn't win for her
self alone. The peace of established
position, of being the wife of Dysart.
What if he weren't as brilliant, as
able as Kim Cornish? He was
steadier. safer. They'd go far yet.
Beyond Bonaventura. OF course he'd
marry her. He owed her too much to
let her down, even though he wasn't
eager about marriage to any one. To-
morrow they'd reach the firmer ground
of understanding. Tonight, though,
she must do her own job. What was
she going to write?
As she shifted from evening gown to
black silk pajamas she ran her mind
over the fields from which she Cleaned
the kernels for her Dixie Decatur"
column. The White House. There
was a story there to make lead, but
she couldn't use it. Bill Dysart had
told her, and it might be traced back
to him. Tongue i'll cheek, she ran
over the list of cabinet wives. Dull,
most of them, from the viewpoint OF
social chronicler. OF course, there was
the tale of one of them who'd named
her birds after old beaux and who
chirruped endearments to them on the
mornings she wanted to annoy ner
august husband. She couldn't use that
either Cynthia had told it to her.
and she feared Cynthia was already
little suspicious about the Daisy Gay
no- story she'd run yesterday. No, sne
decided, she'd be doing this job for
too short a time to risk exposure IN II
now. Well, there was always the
diplomatic corps, provided, OF course,
that one spoke no ill-blatantly-of
friendly power.
The corps and its fringe made the
only real news for her anyhow, sne
reflected. but out in the hinterlands
where her newspaper syndicated her
column people wanted to know what
their elected and appointed repre-
sentatives were doing in their lole
moments. There'd been time wnen
the public announcements OF men IN
washington we're all that Interested
their constituencies. Now their private
lives had to be hung out on the line.
Well. perhaps it was only fair Wnen
nublic events were best explained oy
private associations. She put her port
able typewriter on a table near the
lamp and began to write, clicking her
chronicles of great and near-great as
the storm shook the tree-tops OF the
park. -
Sometimes, amused by her own
hunnor. she smiled. Sometimes, op-
pressed by the need of labor at a time
when other women she knew reiaxeo
into sleep, she sighed. Bit by nlt she
peced the mosaic Of her days quest
for gossip. Tennis at the LaVoniaIi
embassy. Cynthia's luncheon at tne
Carlton.
what a snoop- and-peep job she had!
All right. possibly, for girls who'd
ALWAYS looked at the social fold from |
The other side of the fence. For
Mardi Freer, born into perfectiy eooo
New York position and married lnto
the Washington purple, there was
something of treachery in it. Tnlrty
nieces of silver, even though they PAID
for the luxuries she couldn't otnerwlse
afford. Thank heaven, sneo oe ouU ol
1t sooni
How'd she lead the stuff? Peyton
Waybridge? Poor old Peyton, run
ming off to Europe when the girl IN
Silver Spring took him too seriously!
What lot of girls d miss him, TINS
wears debutantes, and last years
debutantes, and the good old peren-
mails, to say nothing of widows, grass
and sod. Peyton was more than an
eligible bachelor. He was the last OF
the gallants. He made them all feel
romantic-and took them to British
Embassy parties. She banged out
paragraph, then pondered again.
Would she dare identify the little
house in Georgetown where the
chairman of very important COM
love had moved out from it, but his
new love had moved into it. Coin
cidence-or thrift? Did the ghost Of
his by-gone flame haunt it for him?
And sometimes meet him at the door
as she had been won't to do? Well,
If a high commissioner could take
chances, society columnist could.
She'd use it.
She whirled the carrier to another
paragraph. Who'd told her that Mrs.
Ellison had folded up her tent and
gone to London? For three admins
trations she'd tried in vain to win the
heart and hand of one of the coun-
try's leading financiers. Perhaps
Mayfair would take her to its bosom,
even if Washington and the financier
hadn't. Who'd first called her Little
Egypt? Did she know? Or care?
What did it matter, anyhow, If one
were as rich as Caroline Baird Elli-
son? The money that woman had,