TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 7 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.)

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), I CHAPTER V. Kurt Eidenmuller arrived in a low rakish sports car the following morning on the stroke of eleven. He was again in mufti, and she admired the deft manner in which he controlled his car. The swimming pool was up in the pine wood, and like all such places in Germany, was splendidly organised. A mountain stream had been tapped; it flowed in and out of the bath keeping the water at a pleasantly low temperature.

5 He was already swimming when she ) came out, and he watched her dive. 3 She had swum for her college, and ' had learnt her diving from one of the . finest instructors in Cambridge. With ) the exception of an elderly German, 1 who stolidly swam from end to end of ’ the bath, they had it to themselves. In , spite of his powerful shoulders and 1 the energy he put into his Swimming, ’ Kurt Eidenmuller was very little fastj er than the English girl. Afterwards they sat on the edge of ) the bath, and the attendant brought > them coffee. ) “My word! You can swim,” Eiden- ; muller said admiringly. i “I love diving; and the water is like j crystal. It makes me tingle all over.” “That’s the pine extract. We’ve very proud of it,” he smiled. “But you should see some of our big baths. The one in Frankfurt, for example. I —l've got bad news.” “Oh?” “I’m leaving Freudenstadt tonight.” “Rather sudden, isn’t it?” “I’m transferred at a moment’s notice to a camp near Munich. It is a pity. Last week I should have welcomed it, but now that I have met you again—” “I’m sorry. But I hope it means promotion.” “It will, I hope. But the immediate question is how can I see you. again?” “It looks rather difficult. I think I shall dress. It’s the least bit chilly out of the water.” “We will. I want you to lunch with me. There is a little hotel I know twenty miles away in the mountains. It is German—unspoilt. The tourists have not yet discovered it. Do please come.” “But what of your packing?” “My servant will do that. I leave by car at nine this evening, so I have ! plenty of time.” “I must be back at the Pavilion in 1 time for dinner.” ; “You shall be,” he said. The hotel was far off the beaten track in the middle of the forest. Lieutenant Eidenmuller was evidently i well-known there and the meal and service were wholly German. It was I a lovely little spot, nestling at the side x of a tiny, incredibly blue lake; the balcony on which they lunched was c built out over the water. x A deep, brooding peace filled the valley. I

“It’s lovely,” she said. “One could ive from here into the lake.” “We will presently,” he said. “Shall have our bathing things dried?” “Not for at least two hours after this leal,” she laughed. “We will take a boat—a dinghy, you ill it—and I will pull round the lake >r a while. Then, if you feel like it. e will swim again. The water in the ike is cold, though. It is fed by lountain streams.” “It’s as clear as gin,” she said. “That’s hat one always says in England.” “Gin?” he hazarded; she had at last jed an English word that was unlown to him. She explained the meaning of the irase. “So . . gin!” he said, and she knew ,at the word was written on the tabts of his memory. It was a hard, uncompromising, old nghy, but the hotel people half-filled with cushions. “This,” she said as they rounded the

turn of the lake, “is sheer, blissful comfort.” “You are happy . . yes?” “Yes. To be happy one must cut out the past and the future, and make the passing second all-important, don’t you think?” He thought over what she said before he replied: “But one cannot do that. The present is the child of the past, and the parent of the future.” As he spoke the deep silence- of the lake was stirred by the sound of an aeroplane. A minute later they saw it, alone against the blue sky, and the noise of its engine suddenly filled the world around them. “That may be the answer,” she said. “It does rather alter things,” he admitted. | “Was it a military plane?” He shrugged his shoulders. “It may be. I am not expert.” Gradually the throbbing noise died away and silence once more settled on the lake and the hills. “Apart from leaving you, I shall be glad to be in Munich. My family is there. My brother and my mother. My father is dead.” “Is your brother an officer?” “No. He runs the family business. They are printers and publisers. My mother does not like strangers, but she will like you.” “I may never meet her,” she smiled. “And she may very easily dislike me cordially if I, did.” “No. She would like you as I do.” “The next thing you will be saying is that this •is an afternoon made for romance.”. ’ >

“More than any afternoon ever was,” he said earnestly. “I love you! I loved you that night in Cambridge when I met you first.” “You shouldn’t say things like that so suddenly,” she laughed. “You don’t believe in love at first sight?” “I don’t know that I believe in love at all. It seems, if all one reads of it is true, to be a very over-rated experience.” She took a cigarette from his case as she was speaking; he held out his lighter. “But I do love you. I should not have told you today if I had not been leavihg tonight.” “It’s the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman, I suppose,” she said in a tone which indicated that she was not certain. “But I am not paying a compliment. I am serious.” “So am I. But, to be frank, I’m not in love with you or with anyone.” “You do not dislike me?” “Of course not. When you aren’t too serious you are quite amusing. For another thing, you are much too young to be serious. You are, really. “No. There is none other?” “No other man? No. I’m absolutely free and, moreover, mean to remain so.”

“You will give me an address I can write to, yes?”

“If you wish. The University Women’s Club, London, will always find me.”

He produced a notebook and wrote down the address. “No woman who is worth while is easily won,” he said, as he put the book away. “What a nice, pat, little phrase,” she

smiled. “It will be almost time for our swim when we get back.” “Do you mind if I alter my mind and don’t swim?” “Not in the least,” he said. “It is strange that once again I should be taken away the moment I meet you.” “Are you likely to be long in Munich?” ’ “Six months at least. Is there any chance of your coming there? I should take you to most wonderful concerts. It is a lovely old town.” “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I should be back in London as soon as I can. I have to find another job.” “A job? You mean you work?”

She nodded. “It is wrong,” he said solemnly. “A man should work for you.” “That idea was exploded years ago. Even in Germany middle class women work nowadays.” “Yes, of course. Things are different. I am old-fashioned, I think, where women are concerned.” “I shall nevei' forget this afternoon,” he said suddenly, after a silence. “Nor I.” “All things come to an end,” he said wistfully. “But whatever happens you will think of this place.” He turned the boat and slowly pulled back: “I know what you will want when we get back to the hotel.” “Oh?” “Tea. I will go into the kitchen and make it myself for you. I have some tea in the car. —lndian tea. Here we use China tea more.” “That is really nice of you.” “And you shall have milk with it,” he went on. There was something boyish about the big-framed German. She liked him just as she had disliked Ronald Gilroy. “You will answer my letters?” he asked as they slowly rounded the hill which led to the hotel. “Yes.” “And you will not forget that I love you?’ (To be Continued).