The Washington times., 1936-07-08

Aunt Minnie was full of griev-
ances and dyspepsia. A regular
wet blanket.
while living with her you can
look for something to do. You un-
derstand it will be necessary for
you to earn money to support
yourself. I can do very little for
you with my limited income, be-
yond getting you some clothes to
travel in, and buying your railroad
ticket"
She cried herself to sleep that
night in her upper berth on the
train. She had run all the gamut
of emotion in the space of a few
hours, so that she felt drained
now, empty, as though she could
never feel anything any more.
But on thing stood out clearly.
Her love for Gerald had been a
mirage. What she had thought to
be love was nothing but shallow
infatuation born of vanity and a
craving for something new and
exciting.
Her elopement had been nothing
but a dare that she had taken
under the influence of too much
champagne. That was all there
had been to it. The realization
was degrading. The wonderful
emotion she had felt throughout
the ceremony had diminished on
the long, hot ride to San Diego.
It was as though, even before she
heard the amazing words Of that
woman in the hotel lobby, she had
known in her subconscious mind
that something was wrong.
Even if it were true that he was
divorced from his wife. he had
deceived her.
She tried to visualize him from
the moment of their first meeting
on the train. 1t was not his good
looks that she remembered now,
but the bold stare in his eyes as
they repeatedly sought hers.
She had been easy, cheap! She
had behaved as dozens of other
silly geese had probably behaved
in his experience. Seeing how
ready she was to encourage him,
he had been quick to take ad-
vantage.
She had only herself to blame.
She did not even blame Gerald for
what he had done to her. She
had been in love with love, had
dramatized herself, seen herself
as an al-conquering Gree.
Like a person who has an uncon-
trollable desire to bite on an ach-
ing tooth, she went over every
event that had led up to her in
sane marriage. She had been so
full of herself while with him that
she had made no attempt to study
him. to penetrate his veneer.
She had believed everything ne
said, because she wanted to be-
lieve it. led on by her vanity.
She had ragged at her Stepfath-
er's interference, discounting his
wide experience of the world and
of his own sex, secure In her
superior knowledge.
Now she must pay. For the rest
Of her life she must pay. In lonell-
ness. In the knowledge that by her
own insane folly she had shut
romance and decent marriage for
ever from her. In terror that no
matter where she went, her story
would leak out and she would be
branded as the wife of criminal.
Gerald had never loved her. He
had desired her. That was all.
While she had been torn with
terror and pity for him when the
detectives brought him to her
handcuffed, he had sneered in her
face, and the look in his eyes had
been one of cold CenSure.
She was thankful that every
revolution of the wheels was tax
ing her farther from the scene of
shock and of humiliation, though
to her dying day she would re-
member it. That would be her
punishment.
The fourth morning on the
train, nearing New York, Eliza
beth rose early. The sun was shin
ing on the waters of the Hudson
River as she sat in the restaurant
car at breakfast.
ITO Be COntinued)
Copyright, 1885, by King Features
Syndicate. Inc.)