TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 6 May 1938, Page 12

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

HOLLOWAY HORN.

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

SYNOPSIS. On Sir Hector’s sudden death, his son, RONALD GILROY, becomes Mary’s chief. He is a young man of twenty-five and is in love with Mary. But Mary hates him. She resents his amorous attentions and says so. But when he persists, she resigns her job and goes to Freudenstadt, in Germany, on a holiday. Having taken a room at the Pavilion Hotel, she goes for a stroll in the pine woods of the Black Forest. Presently she comes upon a new military road, where she encounters a company of soldiers. Suddenly she recognises one of them. It is KURT EIDENMULLER, whom she had met when he was a student at Cambridge. She had met him once only, at a dance on the eve of his return to Germany. He had sent her, she remembers, a bunch of red roses. He waves to her as the company passes her.

When she returns to her hotel she is surprised to find a similar bunch •of red roses with Eidenmuller’s card, asking if he could meet her in the evening. He meets her accordingly and takes her out to a dance. For the first time Mary is aware of his intense admiration for- her. They exchange experiences and argue over politics in German. Later he accompanies her back to the hotel, promising to take her to a swimming pool the next day. (Now Read On). CHAPTER IV.—Continued. “By the way, I haven’t thanked you for those lovely roses you sent to me, Lieutenant.” “Red Roses. I love them!” he said. “It gave me quite a thrill, coming back to my room in a strange hotel to find flowers left for me. But how on earth did you find out that I was staying at the Pavilion?” “There are not so many hotels in the town, Miss Rossiter. I ’phoned to one or two. And the third, I think it was, said that you were there. Whereupon I called at the florist in the town, selected my red roses, and there you are.” “It was kind. And I love flowers. But tell me, when is war going to be declared?” “War?” he repeated in surprise. “Yes. It seems to be in the air, surely?”

“I don’t think so. No one wants war nowadays. Least of all Germany.” He made the statement with calm assurance. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “There will be several of our fellows there tonight. It should be quite' good fun —as one used to say in. England. But if you don't mind we’ll have a separate table.” “Just as you like.” “You see ... it is a little difficult. My colleagues are not resident here and the ladies with them . “I see,” she said with a smile. “Here is the Spielsaal.” The building, which she had noticed the previous evening, was obviously very modern and seemed an interloper in the old town. The dance hall was a big room and the tables all round it left ample space in the middle for dancing. An orchestra was playing as they entered, but there were still many empty tables. The Lieutenant ordered a bottle of German champagne, which cost the not unreasonable price of five marks. “They are dancing beautifully,” Mary said, indicating one of the few couples on the floor.

‘Yes. They are professionals from Berlin. They should. Shall we dance?”

She nodded and he led her on to the floor. The last time she danced had been with McCarthy in London. Was it only a day or so before? It seemed an incredibly long time ago. Do you dance much?” he was asking. “Am I so bad?” “On the contrary, you dance beautifully. I hardly know you’re in my arms, and you’re very lovely. So English!" “I certainly am English.” “English women are wonderful. They are fearless. That was good,” he said, as the dance came to an end. As they went back to their table a crowd of men and girls came in. They were cheerfully noisy. “Your friend?” she asked. He nodded: “You see? They will not notice us. It is better so. I told them.” “You’re strange people, you Germans. You can so easily live in water-tight compartments.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You agree it is better so? You have nothing in common with these ladies.” The orchestra was playing again and the newcomers were dancing. They danced well, without exception, but there was an abandon, a carelessness in them which was not lost on Mary Rossiter. Eidenmuller poured out the wine. “To our better acquaintanceship,” he said in his formal English. Their eyes met over the golden, bubbly wine, and he smiled. Impossible, even if she had wished, not to smile in return. He was so extraordinarily good-looking, so serious. He was, of course, she reflected, merely a boy, although he was probably a little older than she was.

“Do you know, I've always felt that we should meet again.” “We have . . anyway.” “You drink little, he said later in the evening. “You have hardly touched your wine.” “No. It makes me so thirsty.” Her statement made him laugh. “Then you drink more!” he cried. “But I must drink, even if you don’t. For the good of the house as you say in England.” “I don’t,” she smiled. His friends were gradually getting noisier and it was quite evident now that the ladies with them were in that immortal English phrase “not quite nice.” “Shall we go into the gambling room?” he asked. “What is that?” “They play roulette —or a game very like roulette —there. You can gamble if you wish. Usually I win. I back eight, which is my luck number.” “There are eight letters in my name . . Rossiter,” she pointed out. “And eight in our two names, Kurt and Mary,” he went on. “Come on. We will back eight and we’re sure to win.” “Six turns up,” he pointed out. “Let’s have a shot next time.” But six turned up again. And then five.

And then several other numbers; they were both down nearly to the last counter when eight turned up.

“We still breathe!” he said. Ultimately he lost twenty marks and Mary seven. “Evidently eight isn’t the lucky number tonight,” she said as they went back to the dance hall.

“Usually I win, though,” he insisted. “It is a diversion.”

Tfeey danced again, and at eleven o’clock Mary decided that she was tired.

“Shall I try to get a taxi? There may not be one, I’m afraid.” “I’d far rather walk,” she said.

The moon was coming up over the pine trees, violet-tinted in that lovely light.

“A night made for romance,” he said. “I seem to have heard that phrase before,” she said. “Are you staying here long?” “I’m not sure. I’ve had a delightful day and I like Freudenstadt.” “You’ve been to the swimming-bath yet?” “No.”

“You should. It’s a very small one set in the pine trees, but it’s very pleasant. May I call for you in the morning?” “To swim?” “Yes.” “I should like to. I’ve heard of these modern German swimming pools.” “This is nothing,” he said. “Too small. But they pump pine extract into it, which makes it very agreeable. And here we are far from the sea. I will call at eleven o’clock, if I may.” “That will give me time for a walk in the pine woods.” “You are a strange people, you English,” he said, suddenly. She smiled. “That, too, I seem to have heard before.”

“You don’t seem to respond to the evening, to the great yellow moon —” “How does one respond to the

moon?” “Now you are laughing at me.” “I should be so rude. But does the moon always have this effect on you?” “It depends whom I’m with.” “I’m afraid I’m not a romantic person. And in your case I’m not at all certain that the moon is as much to blame as that wine.” “You had so little that I drank it in order not to waste it.” She nodded: “It’s been jolly,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.”

“Really?” he urged. “Really,” she echoed. “Until tomorrow!”

The vestibule of the hotel was deserted. She made her way up the thickly carpeted stairs to her room where, in spite of the bite in the air, she stood at the open window. Eidenmuller had been right. It was a night made for romance. She liked him. Apart from his exceptional good looks, there was a strange seriousness in him. (To be Continued).