Evening star., 1935-08-07

ing poetry. She wanted to see father
now, to touch his hand. He would set
her right, put things in their proper
places. And what he said would be
true. Shed tell him about Libby and
being secretly engaged to Marshall;
she'd tell him that she had asked
John to kiss her. Mother would be
shocked, but father would understand.
Father always understood.
eff father says I've been q jealous
little fool, I'll 60 to Marshall on my
knees" she told herself as the car
drew up in front of the small house.
John shut of the motor and took
Betsy's hand. II don't know why you
asked me to kiss you, Betsy. But what
ever the reason, I'm I'm glad"
Betsy couldn't look at him after
that. Color burned in two bright coins
on her cheeks. She felt ashamed and
cheap. She climbed blindly out Of
the car and ran up the three front
steps, winking the rain from her
lashes, not glancing back. If John
knew why she had done that foolish
thing, he would hate her and
some one as fine and real as John
Storm hating her was an intolerable
thing.
Her father and mother weren't read
ing, after all. They were asleep.
Betsy knew that when she turned the
key in the lock and stepped into the
chilly, dark hall. Their door was
closed at the head of the stairs and
there was no splice Of light where it
fitted so poorly on its hinges. Tom
my Collins transom was a bright
square eye in the gloom. His type
writer was clicking merrily, out of tune
with her thoughts, and he was whis-
tling. Tomorrow he would be mailing
verses in slim, neat, white envelopes
to New York and in few days they
would be returned to him. "The
editors sent some one to Philadelphia
to meet this BATCH" Tommy would
complain, dryly. 80 they wouldn't
keep me in suspense! Thoughtful of
'em, wasn't it?"
Betsy was surprised to see Terry's
light still on. She remembered then
how he had sat at the dinner table
that evening, not reading, not eating,
his eyes red-rimmed as If he might
have been crying. Terry crying!
She opened his door softly and
thrust her blond head around it.
Hello, wretch! Studying your?
her voice broke IF abruptly.
Terry! What on earth are yoa
doing with that pistol! Wherever did
you get it and why? Why, Terry
why?"
Terry bit his lips. He didn't look
at her. He got up calmly from the
side of the white iron bed and laid
the pistol carefully, too carefully, in
a desk drawer. He was facing Betsy
now, pale and somehow utterly weary.
His tall body sagged; his shoulders and
his blond head, for all the jauAty air
he tried to assume, were inert.
"My, my" he said, articulating dis
tinctly. Don't look so tragic! Do you
think I've challenged some one to a
duell"
Betsy went over to him, panic run
ming riot in her body. Terry's voice,
his queer evasiveness, his tortured
eyes. Something was wrong-oh,
something dreadful, dreadful
"Terryl What is it? You're in
troubled"
He pushed his hair back with an
exaspersted gesture.
What the devil are you talking
about, Betsy! Can't fellow clean q
gun for friend without being sus-
pected of murderous intentions. And
why are you home so early, anyway?
Are your new society friends blue
noses, observers of quaint curfew?"
Betsy jerked erect, movement,
moan, some vague tremor swept over
her.
Terry! 1t :. It isn't Marshall.
is It? You don't =. Oh, Terry, you
don't hate Marshall that much, DO
gou?"
4 To be continued tomorrow. 4