TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 19 May 1938, Page 12

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT. t

By

HOLLOWAY HORN.

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

CHAPTER X.—Continued. “Good gracious no! He never liked it; he inherited this market garden from his uncle. You see, his wife died a few months ago.” “Oh! There’s a wife. That always complicates matters.” “She’s been ill for years . . lung trouble. She died at Davos, in Switzerland. Rather curious things happened. I’d promised to see her if ever I was near Davos and I did call at the Sanatorium, but only, to find that she had been buried a day or so before!” “Sounds like a movie.” “Anthony McCarthy was still in Davos and we met again. So you see there’s nothing whatever in it.” “But she’s dead." * “Even so. McCarthy wouldn’t have married her if he hadn’t loved her and he’s not the man who would love i twice.” “Say, listen here,” Laurette said patiently. “You’ve got it all wrong. You’re thinking, in the terms of fifty years ago. The ever and a day business is bunk! How long was she in . . . the place you said?” “Davos? A long time. She had to go there very soon after they were married.” “Tough luck. He seems a real good sort from what I can gather.” “He is.” “A man can be loyal . . he should be. But it isn’t in human nature to remain devoted to a person you never see.”

“ ‘No thank you,’ in effect.” “But, my dear girl, he has never by word or deed shown any interest other than that of a friend‘in me. He’s been at my flat several times —he likes my omelettes —but beyond that we just sat and talked.”

“Here’s old whiskers,” Laurette said disrespectfully of the waiter. “Let’s have some more coffee. Cafe,” she went on to the waiter. “And take this cognac away; it’s bad.” The waiter smiled, “Creme de Menthe?” he suggested. “No,” Mary cut in. “Looks to me as if that guy of yours needs gingering up some. Still, give him time,” the American girl said when the waiter had gone. “I met another amusing man in Germany.” “That’s good hearing. DoesnT do to let them think they’re the only pebble on the beach, even if they are.” “A German officer.” “Handsome?” “Much more so than Anthony McCarthy. I met him originally when he was a student in Cambridge.” “Say, that Cambridge sounds a very good seat of learning to me,” said the American girl seriously, and was surprised when Mary laughed. “I met him again in the Black Forest. And again in Berlin a few weeks ago. Each time we’ve been together for a very short time. There’s no doubt about his being interested. He wanted to marry me, and said so.” “He does seem alive,” the American girl admitted.

“I had been to a night club in Berlin called the Femina—an English Ferdinand Wilmot, took me.” “Say.. . you’re developing as the night goes on. Number three! And an hour ago nobody was interested in you.” “Ferdinand Wilmot is about sixty. We were sitting at a table when out of nowhere there appeared- Lieutenant Kurt Eidenmuller.” “What a Godsend,” said the American. “Wilmot was a dear. Insisted on my dancing with Eidenmuller. But the very next evening Eidenmuller had to leave for Munich.” “He asked you- to marry him? Pretty good going.: What did you say?” “ ‘No thank you,” in effect.” “Yet is sound a very attractive proposition to me,’ said Laurette. “I don’t think I shall ever marry. I certainly shan’t unless I meet someone who sweeps me off my feet.” “That sort of marriage almost invariably end up in a crash." “What is wrong with me is that I’ve nothing to do. Nothing to spend my energy on.” “You mean you want a job?’ “Not for financial reasons. One way and another I’m quite well -off,” “Just for the sake of havin.g a job?" “For the sake of having an object in life.” “But the world is an amusling place. If you don’t have to have a job, you can do what you like, go where you like.” “I don’t think that's true of anyone. We’re dependent on. others for our happiness. Money does not mean happiness.” “Say, haven’t we come back to the boy friend?” said Laurette. “Not personally.” “Nonsense! I like you and if you’ll let me, I’m going to give you some advice. It’s a thing I don’t often do, believe me.” “Go ahead,” said Mary. “You’re in love, my dear, up to your

ears.” “Up to my ears?” “Yes, the American girl said and waited, by Mary Rossitttr v) as silent.

“When a woman's in love she’s entitled to go all out, within reason, for her man.” “Entitled, possibly. But it’s obviously a foolish thing to do in many cases.” “Not if a girl is as attractive as you are. Men are poor mutts in the main and haven’t a great deal of imagination.” “If I were in love with Eidenmuller.” “But you aren’t You’re in love with that other guy; McCarthy.” “No,” said Mary Rossiter. “Yes,” said the American girl. “And you know it as well as I do.” “I should never dream of ‘going all out’ for him. I’m too fond of him.” “Of all the idiotic statements I’ve ever heard . .” Laurette said and relapsed into silence in sheer amazement. Suddenly Mary Rossiter smiled, “You are a nice child,” she said. “And I wanted to talk with another girl very badly.” “Where do. you go from here?” “I’m not certain. I had thought of Monte Carlo, and then home.” “You won’t stay here?” “No. I shall go on tomorrow.” “I’m sorry. Our schedule” —she pronounced it as if it were spelt “skedule”—“leaves us here until Friday. And then we go to Marseilles and then t‘o . . Cannes, I think. We go on tp' Monte Carlo afterwards. Can I call on you when we return through London?” “I shall be pleased. And now Ithink we’ll stroll towards the Hotel and bed.” “Sure.” - Mary signalled to the waiter.

“No. This is my shout,” the American insisted. “I asked you to come.” Alone in her room at the hotel, Mary Rossiter thought over what the American girl had said to her. She was fond of McCarthy; she admired him in many 'ways; she trusted him. But these things were not love, not the love one reads about, not the passion that swept men and women along to happiness . . or, as the American girl had put it, to Reno. She though of his level blue eyes, of his quiet smile. After all, the American girl, for all her sophisticated wisdom, was little more than a child, a year or so away from.that High School of which she had spoken. Her knowledge of life was probably based on the movies and in the cinema, as Mary Rossiter knew, the emotion called love was given a far greater importance than it actually has in real life. Something, certainly, was wrong with her.

It was a job she wanted, an aim, something to work for. She would go to Monte Carlo as she had decided and not to use. her gift of languages.

thence return to England and settle down to work; it was almost a crime So she argued with herself and presently fell asleep to be awakened by the chambermaid With- her Cafe Complet.

“It’s a lovely day, Mademoiselle,” the stout maid said cheerfully as she drew back the curtains.

The sun poured into her room; the coffee was delicious; the crisp rolls and butter perfect.

Life was good. It was ungrateful—ungrateful to Mrs Wester ton in particular —to be disgruntled. There was no reason why she shouldn’t have an excellent time, why she shouldn’t get happiness and satisfaction out of life. She had never been to Monte Carlo; at least it would be an amusing place. She decided to get the morning train which would reach Monte comfortably the same day.

She had travelled so much in the last few weeks that packing had become almost second nature. As she was finishing there was a tap at the door and Laurette came in.

“You’re up,” she said. Her expression changed as she noticed the trunks and dressing cases. “And packed?” she added. “You’re really going?” “Yes. I want a few days in Monte.” “I came to attempt to persuade you not to,” said the American girl in a disappointed tone. “When are you due in Monte Carlo?” “Next Friday.” “Then I’ll certainly stay there until you come.’ “That’s a promise?”

’ “Yes. I’m staying at the Couronne. It’s not a big hotel, but you’ll have no trouble in finding it.” “Theh I’ll look you up as soon as we get there. And I’m going to see you off.”

“That's vtery nice of you. But what about your people?” “They’ll be all right.”

The frank, impulsive American girl amused Mary Rossiter. She liked her. Since she had left Cambridge, her life had been circumscribed by men; she had not known a single woman of her own age intimately. It was refreshing to be able to talk without the instinctive reserve a woman has when talking to a man. “I shall look forward to seeing you. I would have stayed on but when I reserved my rooms in Paris, I arranged to stay here one day only.” “But you’ve promised to stay in Monte until we get there?” (To be Continued.)