Worcester Democrat and the ledger-enterprise. (Pocomoke City, Md.) 1921-1953, 1940-03-15
81 BELONG TO YOU"
By ROSAMOND DU JARDIN

| and left him temporarily to his own
devices. Brent looked around for
seat but there was none available. He
moved aimlessly across the room and,
on a sudden impulse, let himself out
into the hallway. He closed the door
behind him, shutting in the uproar,
The narrow hall was empty and, by
comparison, very quiet indeed. Brent
sat down on the top step of the car
peted stairs and sampled his drink
and wondered, his mouth trifle
grim. What am I doing here anyway =!
What did I come for?
AS though in answer to his unspok-
en- query, a lock clicked somewhere
in the dimness below and steps as
cended. Assembled slowly, with inter-
walls of hesitation, postponing appar-
emily as long as possible their own
er's inevitable arrival.
March Allison hadn't wanted to go
to the party, either. She didn't sup
pose she had ever felt less like one Of
Conchita's brawls in her life. Yet
here she was, climbing the stairs, feel
ing the spell of the spring night still
sweet and urgent upon her.
1t was the night, rather than the
fact that she was tired, that made
her so reluctant. Although she had
cause enough for physical WEAKNESS,
too. The Saunders Studio, an or
ganization of commercial artists with
which she held an excellent position,
was in the midst of a seasonal rush.
And today had been trifle more
hectic than usual. March had work.
ed late; everyone had. Even Clay
Saunders had fingered till after eight.
He had wanted March to dine with
him, but she declined. She dined
with Clay too often; it was foolish to
foster any misunderstanding of their
relationship around the studio. March
smiled family at the absurdity OF the
thought. She and Clay were so far
removed from the ordinary employee
and employer. He had been her
fathers friend, now he was hers.
Memories of Clay, of his countless
kindnesses, stretched almost back to
her babyhood, long before the death
of her parents. When she showed a
flair for art, Clay had encouraged
her to develop it. What more natural
than that he should offer her employ
ment when her course at art school
was completed? Nor was his contin-
ued interest difficult to understand.
March rounded the last turn in the
stairs and observed, not without sur
prise, that someone was sitting on
the top step. A dark young man,
tallish Judging by the length OF his
legs, with a drink in his hand, and,
on his face a curious expression Of
could it be expectancy?
Brent watched the girl in the smart
grey suit come slowly toward him.
Her eyes, under the dipped brim OF
a scarlet felt hat, were remote and
Swallowed. But she smiled, after
moments grave inspection. Smiled
and inquired, indicating the door be-
hind him with a slight movement OF
her head, "Overflow?"
Brent nodded, smiling, too, and got
to his feet. She was taller than he
had imagined. 1t was the slim fragil-
ity of her that gave an erroneous i'm
preston of smallness.
Brent said, "Overflow is right! You
must have been to parties here be-
FORE"
EYES," She yed him curiously. "Is
this your first? I don't believe
know you"
"I'm Brent Randolph. "By way of
explanation he added, "Terry Crewe
brought me-
ooh, Terry" She smiled once more
and, rather to Brent's surprise, sat
down on the step he had so recently
vacated. "Do you mind? Or must
you have absolute solitude? I'm
March Allison"
Brent wasn't sure he had heard a.
right. He asked, sitting down beside
her and resting his elbows on his
knees, "Did you say-March?"
81 said March," Her tone was a