Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1935-08-20
CHAPTER XVII.
n RS. STOCKTON came into the

afraid, she thought, on tne euge Vi
the satinwood chair. She saw the
rich golden tendrils of her hair licking
out from beneath her blue hat, the
even, clear-cut features-lovely. flaw
less features-the graceful line of her
foot and ankle. Only good blood could
produce an ankle like that, Mrs.
Stockton thought, only good stock
could make foot so tiny. And some
how that small figure sitting there in
the light of the fire and sun caught
at her heart and brought back men,
cries of herself at 10,
She had been blond and small, too
-. as blond and small as Betsy Sey-
mour, and not unlike her. Once she
had sat on the edge of her chair like
that, her hands locked tightly together
in her lap lest they betray her-f1y
to her heart or cover her eyes or drag
piteously at her mouth. There on the
porch of her Virginia home she had
sat and struggled with the greatest de-
cision of her life Whether to marry
Edward Stockton for his money and
power and family, or Randolph White
because she loved him. Not that
Randolph White hadn't had family.
Like herself he was overburdened with
Mayfower ancestors. first Virginia set
tiers, members of the House of Bur-
gesses and signerS of the Declaration
of Independence. And like herself
his grandfather had come home from
the Civil War to two white chimneys,
all that was left of stately old South
ern mansion, and family portraits slit
by Yankee SaberS, hidden in the woods
and silver brought over from England
buried in the ground by faithful slaves.
She had married Edward Stockton.
She had made her bed. 1t hadn't
been the soft feathered one that her
mother had described, but still she
hadn't complained. Somewhere the
high romance of her youth still lived.
In the heart of Randolph White
wherever he was-in the heart of this
little girl sitting before the fire.
Betsy looked around then and saw
Mrs. Stockton She rose punctiliously
to her feet
Mrs. Stockton came across the long
room to her, holding out slim hand,
heavily weighted with costly emeralds
and diamonds, a gentle smile on her
lips. A youngish-oldish woman, Betsy
saw. Young, gentian-blue eyes be-
meath carefully waved gray hair.
young ink-and-white complexion
drawn a little at the corners of her
mouth. Not at all the woman she
had expected.
She went to the sofa before the fire,
the train of her black chiffon hostess
gown curling around her small ankles.
She motioned Betsy to her, saying:
I'm so glad you came. my dear. I've
wanted to meet you. Now tell me all
about yourself.
Betsy had expected to feel conscious
of her cheap little suit, of her home
washed gloves. of her starched or
CANDY blouse that had been mended
beneath the arms. But now she for
got them. She forgot everything but
the lovely woman sitting beside her,
the soft Southern voice that breathed
the sweet perfume of a chivalrous
period.
There isn't much to tell, I'm afraid,
Mrs. Stockton" she said, giving her
that amazingly friendly little smile.
II understand that you work in the
Government. Do you like your posi-
tion?"
MOO" said Betsy, and took a
long, uneven breath. I'm a typlst
and don't like anything so mechani-
cal. It's very wearing. But, do you
know, it's funny; when I typed my
novel I never got tired. I could keep
at it for hours and hours and have
not the slightest desire to stop. I've
read that creative work is travail;
that it tears some authors apart. A
famous writer at department store
where she was autographing her novel
once told me that drawing upon her
self emotionally was such drain she
had to go to bed for weeks after
finishing each book. I didn't find
mine work at all . =. l.. -" she paused
for moment and lovely flush crept
into her cheeks. Maybe I'm not
really an authoress maybe my
book is just junk-just plain junk"
Mrs. Stockton looked straight into
Betsy's wide blue eyeS-eyeS that
might have been her own when she
was Is. She said: I'm sure it isn't
junk, Betsy. 1t is probably very
fine, sincere effort. How much have
you written on it?"
I've finished it," she said. ut took
me over a year and half. mailed
1t last week to Barker Bros, in New
York. I expect it back any moment
now. Tommy Collins-hes a boy
who rooms at our house-is always
mailing poetry to editors and promptly
getting it back. guess that will hap
pen to me, too. I understand that
most writers get many reflections be-
fore they actually begin to sell, so
I'm resigned to my fate"
And, knowing all this, you've
plunged ahead with your story and
have mailed it. I admire you for
that" Mrs. Stockton said. Tell me,
dear, what is the theme of your
book?"
Betsy's eyes were blue stars now.
"It's about a girl who takes from life
what she wants and how she goes
about getting it, The background is
Washington. Naturally, 1t had to be.