TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 3 May 1938, Page 10

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

HOLLOWAY HORN.

(Author of “George,” “That Man at Claverton Mansions,” etc.)

CHAPTER 111 (Continued.) It was curious, she pondered, a little later, as she was brushing her pale golden hair, that she should have enjoyed the quiet evening with McCarthy so much. Dinner and a dance, with Gilroy, would have been, judged by any ordinary standards, a more exciting experience. Was McCarthy right? Had she taken Gilroy too seriously? It was still more curious that her trained brain did not help her in the least to decide these questions. Which makes one wonder a little whether a trained brain is as great an asset, in some ways, as one is led to believe. But the solicitor, for all his “solid wisdom,” was wrong. A week or so later Mary Rossiter ’phoned to him. It was just before six. He had had a very tiring, dull day, and he lifted the telephone receiver wearily. “Hullo,” he said. “This is Mary Rossiter speaking. I recognised your voice, Mr McCarthy. “Splendid! How are you?” “So —so. I wondered if you would care to take me out to dinner this eve’ning? Fifty-fifty of course.” “I shall be delighted. Do we dress?” “I think so. Will you call here for me?”“Yes. At seven fifteen? I’m just going.” “Then I shall expect you.” “There’s nothing wrong, is there?” “I’ll tell you during dinner. You understand, it’s fifty-fifty?” “If you insist.” “I do. At seven fifteen, then?” And with that she rang off. McCarthy was, to put it mildly, surprised. In his way he had as wide a knowledge of women as Gilroy, and he was fully aware that something had happened, that Mary Rossiter’s invitation was no mere whim. At the hour appointed he reached 'her flat. Her cheeks were flushed, but it was not with added colour. “Well, here I am,” he said. “And I’m ready. Where shall we go?” “It depends on the mood you’re in. Somewhere with loud music, quiet music, or no music?” “Quiet, please.” “I know the very place. It’s Evelyn’s favourite, too.” It was one of those intimate places', where everything wafe in excellent taste and nothing jarred. A string quartet played pleasantly; the food was good and the atmosphere calming.

McCarthy chose the meal. There are times when a woman has no desire to decide anything, when she is willing to leave things to the man with her. And this, as McCarthy suspected, was one of them.

With the coffee, he dropped the light, impersonal talk he had kept up: “Come on, now,” he said quietly. “Out with it.”

“I’ve chucked my job,” she said. “H’m . . I though that was it.” “Gilroy wanted to make love to me. I wasn’t having any. He was rude; I was ruder. I walked out on him.” “When was this?” “About three hours ago.” “It’s final?” “Wholly. I’ve finished.” “The man is a cad,” he said, quietly. “He’s a bigger cad than you know,” she said. “For one thing—there’s no reason why you should not know now, although he told me in confidence—for one thing he’s married.” “You never told me that.” “No.”

“He told you?” “Oh, yes. He was quite frank about it. In South America. His wife left him, apparently.” “But it isn’t it generally known?” “No, not even his parents knew.” “It’s very curious,” was his comment, “for a man in his position either to wish or to be able to keep such a thing a secret.” “I though so. But I wasn’t really interested.” “It made any suggestion of love-mak-ing on his part an insult. It puts his conduct, in quite a different light. The fellow’s an unmitigated cad.” “I agree. And now don’t let talk about him any more. I’ve made up my mind what I’m going to do.” “Oh?” “I’m going to Germany for a few weeks just to polish up the language. I may go on to Switzerland. Say a month in all. And then I’m going to get another job.” “I may be able to help you there.” "But I’m not going to worry.” “Why should you? A girl with your qualifications can always get a job.” “I may even go abroad permanently. I’ve heard there are excellent jobs going in some of the Paris travel-agency offices.” “Lady Gilroy will be surprised?” “She may not know. I rather hope she doesn’t.” "When do you leave for Germany?” “Tomorrow! That’s why I wanted to see you tonight.” “But why rush things? There’s no hurry for a day or so.” “I feel like it. I really became angry —really lost my temper. I was very upset.” “He really is a swine!” McCarthy said.

A silence. “How are you off for ready money?” “I’ve got plenty.” "Sure? I can pay a couple of hundred into your account if you wish?” “It’s all right, thanks. I’ve plenty.” “But have you made your arrangements?” “Yes. I went into the Travel Agency Office a few doors away from us in the City. They fixed everything up.' “Passport?” “Okay!” she smiled. “Expires next year.” “What part of Germany are you going to?” “The young man at the travel agency recommends Freudenstadt.” “Never heard of it,” he said, as he lit a second cigarette. “In the Black Forest. Pine woods and mountains. You go all down the Rhine to get to it.” “Dover—Ostend, I suppose?” She nodded: “I’ll send you a postcard. Where is your wife staying in Davos? I may quite easily get there in my travels.” “The Gunther Institute. She’d love to see you.” She nodded and smiled: “I shall be all right,” she assured him. “Where are you staying in Freudenstadt?” “Pavilion Hotel. \ The young man spoke very highly of it.” “We can’t seem to get behind that young man,” he smiled. “He was a joy. One of those encyclopaedic young man who really try to be helpful.” “I should have preferred, speaking as your solicitor, that you had consulted me before you plunged into this adventure.” “You really think’it will be an adventure then?” she asked. “You’ve had quite enough of that Burgundy, young woman.” “Tomorrow night I shall probably drink Rhine wine! Wine always makes sleepy. I’m sleepy now.” “It’s nine-thirty. I know a place where we can dance if you wish.” “Just for an hour!” The Lobelia is an amusing club and quite respectable. It had an excellent band, and a perfect, if small, floor. They were both rather surprised to find that the other danced passably well. “You dance very well?” he said. “What did you expect?”

“You are a very surprising young person in many ways. Somehow one doesn’t associate . . ”

“A blue-stocking with dancing?” “Hardly that. The main thing is that you do dance well.” “So do you, sir.’ “And does it surprise you?” “Not altogether. But the main thing, as you say, is that you do.”’ At a quarter to eleven they decided they had had enough. “Come in for a last coffee?” she suggested when they reached her flat. “Thank you.” “Here’s luck!” he said as he raised his cup a minute or so later. She smiled: “You’re my good friend,” she said quietly. “Thank you. That is the kindest thing I’ve had said to' me for quite a while.” At that moment the telephone bell rang. “Who on earth is that?” she said in a puzzled tone. “Hallo!” she went qn. as she lifted the receiver. “Oh!” he heard her say. For a moment there was silence before she said: “There’s nothing more to be said.” She went on after another silence. “I’m leaving for Germany in the morning. You can send it to my solicitor, Mr Anthony McCarthy, of Messrs Swannith. Swannith and Jevons, 136 Lincoln’s Inn.” And with that she banged the received. “It was Ronald Gilroy,” she went on, turning to her guest. “I gathered that.” “Well . . that is the end of a chapter.” “The end of a chapter,” he repeated “And it has left me one thing I value. A friend.” “Thank you,” he said simply. (To be continued.)