Evening star., 1937-01-24
by FREDERIC F. Van De WATER

known many people to have the same belief
with no more warrant. John, why don't you
stop suffering nobly and phone your agent?"
He shook his head MAX would let me
know. He promised he would
Mrs. Gilfeather said: I'VE can stop at the
telegraph office when we drive in for the mail.
If there's nothing there, you can wire. Then
added abruptly, you look so - resolutely
masculine, John, suppose my indelicacy has
offended you But I've known you ever since
you were pup. An old widow woman should
have the right to speak her mind. want you
to marry lone, John. At oncey'
He considered her rubicund face and sour
mirth puckered the corners of his eyes.
You're persistent old busybody, aren't
you Amanda? Good Lord, do you think
dontwant to? Even your - insistence doesn't
daunt me. But III ask no woman to share my
home until I've something more than fourth
floor lodging house room to offer her.
You're an IDIOT" she told him. You're
still filled with windy adolescence"
Silas came across the lawn in long fluttering
hops. His wings were half spread. His mouth
was wide. He screamed hideously. The screen
door at the porch's far end slammed lone
came around the corner She smiled on York
and held up a bowl of bread and milk.
Her slim, blond loveliness took the mans
breath He ransacked his recollection of all the
best poets and found no phrase to match her
April-hued fairness. At her small feet Silas
bounced up and down and screeched.
Darling" said lone; and though she ad-
dressed the crow the word sent long shiver
down York's spine. WAS he 50 hungry then?
Poor lamb"
She sat down on the step and held a sopped
morsel for an instant above the gaping bill.
"Wah" Silas shouted.
lone bent her bright head and crooned to
her pet York thrust back his chair and rose.
Mrs. Gilfeather marked his grim face and
asked, with broad irony:
do his table manners disturb you?"
mot that" he said. He is symbolic of
what you plan for me-" He went on into the
house and up to his room.
He sat on his beds edge and stared floor
ward, as though the wreckage Mrs. Gilfeather
had wrought lay on the hooked rug at his feet.
For five years now, he had planned, when
lone and the wavering income of minor
author both had grown, to lay himself and
fame as novelist, twin inconsiderable offer
ings, at the girls feet. For five years she had
been to him permanently lovely child, whom
neither an ambitious mother nor the hard
bright shellac Of finishing school had marred.
And now, when his fortunes were at their
lowest when the book on which he had pinned
his future still hung in the Mayfair Magazine 8
balance Mrs Gilfeather had pulled his dream
down into dust and ruin.
Among its blasted fragments, pride alone
remained. 1t held him obstinately mute. An
author, three hundred dollars removed from
penury, could not wed daughter of wealth
who, in another year, would inherit her grand
sire's millions. If the Mayfair would only
accept his novel! But he no longer had belief
in miracles.
Hekept staring at the floor while wretched-
ness curdled into anger - disgust at himself
for so eagerly accepting the invitation of his
willy hostess, wrath toward circumstance that