GAY WITH FLOWERS

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 277, 13 February 1928, Page 4

GAY WITH FLOWERS

A BRIDGE PARTY Larkspur, delphiinums and vivid cactus dahlias were used effectively to decorate the drawing and morning rooms of Mrs. H. C. McCoy’s house on Friday afternoon, when she gave a delightful bridge party. In the dining room gay splashes of colour were provided by bowls of glowingly red African daisies and other bright blooms. Mrs. McCoy wore an attractive gown of viola-mauve georgette embossed with small conventional flowers and panelled with lace. Among her guests were: Mrs. Massey, wearing a rose pink ninon frock with ivory embroidered overdress. Mrs. Peacocke, floral patterned frock of santal chiffon. Mrs. S. Caro, frock of lacquer red lace girdled with velvet. Mrs. D. Scott, frock of gold embroidered jade green crepe de chine. Mrs. Nelson Mitchell, tangerine and blue frock of embossed georgette. Mrs. J. Hutchinson, black frock of accordion-pleated georgette with insets of gold and Oriental tissue. Mrs. J. Hyams, frock of cameo pink lace and chiffon. Mrs. P. Herman, Paris-tinted frock of Mechlin lace. Mrs. F. H. Pope, frock of opal blue georgette and lace. Mrs. Halilgan, black lace frock girdled with velvet. Mrs. Marriner, frock of wild rose chiffon and lace. Miss C. Friedlander. black and floral patterned georgette frock. Miss Cleghorn, Naples blue ensemble of trieolette. satin* crepe°' fr °° k ° £ flnel^-Plea ted black HER JOB A SHORT STORY By IRENE TEMPLE Ive got a job,” said Mary, with the elfin smile that lent her irregular features a fleeting beauty. “Don’t go off the deep end, there’s a dear man. The butcher’s bill is a night mare and the baker and milkman won’t wait Kiss me and wish me luck.” John, lifting heavy eyes from his manuscript, returned her smile a trifle wanly. “If it must be so, my dear?” “Now don’t be tragic about it, sweetheart! You know very well that I’ve never regretted your throwing up that killing office work; when your whole soul was in literature. One of these days your ship will come home, and we’ll be blithe as bees in clover. Meanwhile, don’t grudge me my little opportunity to help keep the pot boiling. And you shan’t be neglected, I promise you. I’ll be liome every day in time to see that you get your dinner; and you’ll find your socks darned as usual.” Already, the victim of an indifferent world’s neglect was immersed in his plot-weaving. But he looked up to ask, with some show of husbandly interest: “What sort of job have you taken on?” “Back to typing again,” said Mary. “And the office is near enough for me to walk home to lunch.” Things brightened up considerably as Mary continued to make good, and to devote her earnings .to domestic amenities. “Had a rise this week,” she announced casually some six months later, when John had grown unquestionably accustomed to an efficient maid, undisturbed literary acti-

vities, and regularly culinary joys. “It’s a decent job, and more prospects ahead.” As if her own luck had turned the tide of the domestic fortunes, there came a memorable morning when, in place of the inevitable thick foolscap envelops on the mat, the unappreciated genius came upon a neat square missive enclosing a ten-guinea cheque. Mary suffered his breakfast-table flourishes with a perfectly unresentful good grace. His swift accession of highbrow patronage brotSght a purely maternal smile to her lips. If her fine eyes were a little dim. it was because John’s one swallow so obviously made his summer. John saw neither smile nor tears. He was busy transferring the cheque to his pocket-book, as he proclaimed majestically: “There’ll be no need, of course, for you to carry on with that typist's job of yours.” Just a fortnight later, poor John succumbed to pneumonia. It was Alary’s one comforting thought that he would never know the identity of the “typist”—promoted to the associ-ate-editorship of a woman’s journal—who had given him his brief place in the sun.