TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 25 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 XII (Continued.) “Pm chaperone, you mean? I was just going to make tea. I’ve been drinking coffee. I hate it at this time of the day.” “I’ll make it,” said Laurette. “You won’t,” said Mary. “I would not trust any American to make tea. You lay the table.” “What can I do?” Murdock demanded. “Generally supervise,” laughed Laurette. “I’ve had a boy friend in this afternoon,” said Mary. “Who . . Mac . . Mac what’s-his-name?” Laurette demanded. “No. Lieutenant Kurt Eidenmuller, of the Army of the German Republic.” “I wish I’d known he was coming.” “Why?” asked Murdock. “I wanted to see him. Handsome, domineering, a real he-man.” “He’ll be back at six-thirty. We dine together for the last time.” “Why the last time?” “He goes back to Germany tonight.” “We’re dining together, too. Shall we make it a foursome?” “I don’t think so?” smiled Mary. “Much as you would like it. There’s the kettle.” When Kurt Eidenmuller reached the flat that evening he found the two girls alone. Murdock was coming in at seven to pick up Laurette He bowed stiffly from the hips when Mary introduced them and appeared to have little to say. “I bought you flowers,” he said to Mary and held out a lovely bunch of red roses. “Thank you very much. I’ll put them in water,” said Mary. She was wearing one when she came back into the room. Another very formal bow marked their departure, and as he turned to open the door for Mary, Laurette winked at her friend. “You will forgive my not being dressed, Mary?” he asked as he entered the taxi after. “I didn’t expect you would be. You go straight to the station, don’t you?” “Yes.” , ' Mary did her best, but it was a dull meal. Kurt Eidenmuller was not a man of words at the best of times and for the first time in his had realised that something he really wanted was beyond his reach. “I am not bright,” he said in his slightly foreign English. ’“You will forgive?” “Then we will be serious, my friend. We will discuss serious things.” “No. There is only one thing I wish to talk about and that is you.” “As a sole topic of conversation I’m afraid I’m not very extensive,” she smiled. “Your decision is irrevocable?” “It is,’ she said without hesitation. “I’m sorry, Kurt. Every decent woman is sorry when she cannot return a decent man’s affection. But life is not always easy.” “What shall we drink?” “I drink very little. You decide.” “Rhine wine. Good German wine?” “You prefer it to French?” she asked seriously and for the first time that evening he smiled. “I do,” he said. “I certainly do. But then I’m not much of a judge.” “I did not like your American friend.” “Why? I always like to know why people dislike my friends.” “Her lips were outrageously made up.” “Oh, that. It’s just a silly fashion. It deceives no one; it is not meant as a deception. Personally, I don’t use a coloured lipstick because it does not suit me. If it did, I should.” “Our German women do not.” “It is now eight o’clock,’ he said, when the waiter brought the coffee. “My train goes in one hour. You will not change your mind, return to your flat for what you need, and come with me? We could go at once to my mother’s in Munich . . she has a lovely house. . j ” “No!” she said quietly, but firmly.

“So! I wondered if the idea of cutting the painter—an English phrase — and just walking out into a new life, a new world, might have its appeal to you.”

“One must be certain that one would prefer the new world.” They were silent. “I wonder,” he at length. “Shall we ever meet

again?” “We may. And if we do I'm quite certain that we shall be good friends. We may even look back on tonight with a little smile.”

“I shall think of you in the kitchen making coffee.” “So! It was a good overall; it was good coffee.” Impossible for her not to laugh at his seriousness, but his features remained grave.

“Perhaps we should go,” he said, a little later. “It is important that I do not miss the train. You will see me off?” “If you wish.” “I do. Particularly.” “Then I will.” He was silent on the way to the station excepting for very occasional remarks.

On the platform two men—apparently officials from the Embassy—awaited him. His luggage had been registered, his seat booked. One of them, she noticed, handed him a blue envelope. Then, with unobtrusive salutes, they turned on their heels. It wanted a few minutes to the time of departure.

“I shall remember this moment all my life,” he said. “The noise and the smell of the station and you standing here with me . . ”

“I doubt it very much, Kurt,” she said. “In a few year’s time you will be happily married, and if my name were mentioned you probably would hardly remember it.”

“We were fated from the first to part like this,” he said. “You do not believe in fate, no?”

“No,” she said. “To a great extent I believe we are the arbiters of our fate.”

“We have met and passed like ships in the night . . four times. And this is the end.”

“It is better so, Kurt. You will forget me. Don’t try to see again, will you?” z

’“No,” he said gravely. “You have been very frank and honest with me all through. Believe me, I appreciate it.”

Whistles were blowing; there was a renewed blast. Last arrivals were running for the train, doors were slammed.

“Good-bye, Kurt,” she said and held out her hand.

But he did not take it. Instead, as the train slowly moved, he bowed that jerky, stiff little bow from the hips, and then he stood as if at attention. It was her last memory of him. A solitary figure, standing rigidly upright in the corridor of the train as it moved slowly out of the station into the night, out of her life . . With a queer choking feeling in her throat she turned away. This love business ... If only she had loved him as she loved Anthony McCarthy. If only . . . It is one of the saddest phrases in any language, English, Spanish, German or French. And she spoke them all. CHAPTER XIII. It was early when she -got back to the flat and she had never known before how empty a flat could be. Laurette and her boy friend in all probabality would not be in for some time. On a sudden impulse she turned to the ’phone and called a number. Minutes passed before she heard a voice: “Yes?” he said. “Is that Mr McCarthy?” “Yes.” “This is Mary Rossiter speaking.” “What?” “Mary Rossiter . . .” “I say, I am glad to hear your voice again. Where are you?” “At the flat in Red Lion Square. We got back this morning.” “We?” Just the same intonation that Kurt Eidenmuller had used but she did not recognise it. “Oh, yes. I brought back an American girl with me. I met her in Avignon. But how are you? Tell me the news “There isn't much. Things don’t happen down . . as a rule. How are you?” “Splendid. I rather want to see you. There are one or two things I want to talk over.” As a matter of fact, I shall be in town tomorrow. Might I call at the flat? I'm afraid I must get the six-forty back . . it’s the best train.” “Of course you can. Will you come for lunch?” “I’d like to, Mary. One o’clock?” “Splendid. And you shall have an omelette.” “Then I’ll be there at five minutes to one.” “Three minutes,” said another voice altogether. “Till tomorrow, then,” said Mary and replaced the receiver. As she did so she heard a key in the door of the flat and Laurette’s voice. May I bring him in?” she called. “Of course, silly.” “I'm in,” Murdock said. Apparently they had been talking the whole evening, but they still seemed to have a great deal to say and when Mary watched them with a quiet amusement not altogether' untinged with envy. They were in love with each other; there was no question of whether one was to be sent empty away. Mary did not mention that McCarthy was coming for lunch the following day when Laurette saw that the table was laid for three she asked who was coming. “Anthony McCarthy,” said Mary. “I ’phoned to him last evening.” “Then you don’t want me?” “Yes, I do.” “You mean it?” “Sure, but I must go out after lunch.” “Why?” “Got to post a letter, and to see a man about a dog, among other things.” Mary was still enveloped in one of her mauve overalls when McCarthy arrived. He was wearing a tweed suit, and seemed to Mary to be browner and bigger and broader. But at a glance she knew that there was subtle and more important changes in him than the obvious ones; he was no longer a lawyer- but a farmer, or at least a countryman. “It’s nice of you to come up,” she said, and introduced him to Laurette. The American girl looked him up and down frankly before she held out

her hand: “I’ve heard about you,” she said. “How are the turnips?” “Splendid,” he laughed. “Belt our specialty is mangel-wurzels. Ah! I can smell the omelette.” “I believe that was why you came up,” said Mary. “There are worse reasons,’ said Laurette philosophically. During the meal, Mary noticed that her visitor was more cheerful, but it was not until Laurette had gone that she realised that he had not changed, essentially, at all. “You found your affairs in order?” he asked when they were alone. “You said they were. I haven’t bothered. Money doesn't seem to matter." “It’s infernally important," he said. “And infernally useful. Most of mine is in the business.” “You’re really keen on this new life?” "Really keen,” he agreed. "Do you want any more capital? I have quite a lot and I'd as soon invest it with you as anywhere else." “No, thanks. It's very wisely invested as it is. I saw to that. Don’t let anyone persuade to disturb it.” “I shouldn't without your approval, of course.” “That's a very nice thing to say. What are your plans?’ “I have none. I'm quite at a loose end. What do you think of Laurette?" “She seems very nice and very American.” (To be Continued.)