THE LADY WHO SITS UP

Dominion, Volume 10, Issue 3180, 3 September 1917, Page 7

THE LADY WHO SITS UP

AN IDYLL OF 3 "AJU.

.(By "Wi.")

*R)r Sha hath hair of a golden. hueTake care! Beworel" . Let us cling to. our little Tomances, our fond delusions, our youthful ideals. They are riches which cannot be taken; from .us, though we inay give them up; they are the gilt of our gingerbread;the golden visions of our twilight hours. So cherished, evei;y oloud has a silvor lining, every man is honest—till j'ou find him out—every woman is beautiful—even at the wash-tub—every pay-day is a millennium. So cherished, I repeat, you will never grow, old—grey hairs, bald heads, ■wrinkles, embonpoints, will be but subter. fugea of Old Bather Time to furnish for tha heart of youth' an ambuscade from which to sally unexpectedly when no- ' body is looking. Whioh brings me to the point—l moan, the Lady. She is the most beautiful lady ]'have ever seen. Every morning, at 3 o'clock I pass her near the door of my abode. We never speak—we've never been, introduced: She looks at me with jv half-smile on her lips, like da Vinci's Gioconda—and I look at her. If you were me you'd do the same. Now, if this isn't lomanoe, what ie? I call her the Lady Who Sits UpTilllCtomeHome. Of course, if you're one of theae cold, calculating, materialistic machines, it wouldn't ooour to you to call her that. Therein are you ■ punished for trampling on ■ th& Spirit ot Youth. My lady doesn't sit up a la mode—in a red kimono, with. her. hair in curlpapers, a candle in her hand, and a list of cautions, prohibitions, directions, and so forth for the disciplining of erratic Man. She never tells me to be sure and wipe my feet—"and don't leave the gas burning"—-"and leave some milk in the jug or there won't be enough for breakfast if the milkman's late"—"and !don't step on .the cat, as you did last night, and wake the whole house up"—, "and is the dining-room', door shut properly, because if v it isn't it'll rattle all night"—"and see if the dampsr's shut in the range, because last; night"—Oh, hang! . . • . . " My Lady Who Sits IJp doss nono of these things. As I told you, she never speaEs—just looks. That's the romantic part of it-she just looks, and when you look into her;,«y»s. "yon,', if. yon are romantic, will think of Antony and Cleopatra, Borneo... and Juliet, ifrs. Pankhurst,. and—yes,. you. will think of .»H : those.,*'* They.are' the Wonien,Who'Did Things—and men. . Bui I'm getting away off the point, . which is that in private lifo'l'm i Fpectnblo citizen, and have nonbusiness' ■ «-|ip>ni-»r to be..ravinff about this beautiful lady in evening dr«ss whom I see at 3 o'clcok every morning; Eh? Oh,'yes,■

my lady always appeara in evening dress. She \t£ars black, witli a lot of old luce elfects that you road about in the .Woman's Column—and are none tiie wisor. Her hair is a ricli dark tegul bronze,, like you see in coloured prints of tho Royal Family. Hor cheeks are lightly tinged with the pink bloom of perennial youth. Hor neok is of tho palo, serene, iminaoulalo whiteness of alabaster. She holtU. hor head high, like a queen—and she iooks at me every time I look at her. But she'd false, false, faJ&e! Tho other morning I stood still about half a dozen yards oft- and looked at her. She was in 'a. blaze of light—always ifj—and (lie sheen of her bronze tresses glowed like slumbering fire?. As 1 gazed at Iter, a man approached. . Ho was of the genus sport, species gay. '1 s-sriy; old chap," said he, jerking his thmnb in tho lody's direction. "Who's your lady friend?" I 6miled. Ho had been to a party, ajid had a hiccup. "I don't know her," I said. "She's —hie—what I call a stunner —a I r-reg'lar. s-s-stunner—what?" I [ said nothing. "But she w-won't—hie—s-speak," he said, querulously. "I - s-said good evening' io her, but she never—hie—said a word." "I'll tell you," T said. "She's false. Her hair is false—it's a wig. Her t»eth are false, her face is false—it's made of wax, and if you'll come along to this window in tho morning, can see straight you will observe that she is screwed on to a block of wood. She's a hair specialist's bust. I come past here every]morning at 3 o'clock. Rot .window's 'lit up all night, and the only soul I meet on the Quay. Now do you see? . . ."Well, I'm jiggered!" ho 6aid. "No," I said, "you're not at all jiggered. 1 You're merely a triflt tight. Bust meets bust. Good morning!"