HANDMAID TO FAME

Wairarapa Times-Age, 8 February 1939, Page 10

HANDMAID TO FAME

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT COPYRIGHT.

BY

BERTA RUCK.

CHAPTER 111. Continued.

“If I were —I mean if I had a young sister in Miss Doris’s place I shouldn’t want to see her standing up in court and admitting that she couldn’t keep her man, which is what it comes to! And, another thing. When Miss Doris has got over this . . disappointment, she will of course think of marrying, eventually, somebody else.

Blandly, Terry’s horn-rimmed spectacles were trained on that photograph of Ted’s broad, frank face, good shoulders and sturdy limbs in football shorts. “To have been plaintiff in a breach-of-promise case doesn’t do a girl any lasting good in the eyes of the next young man.

“No —” broke suddenly, incoherently from Doris. “Auntie! Daddy, it isn’t worth —’’

Auntie; furious: “You shut up and don’t be a little fool. All this isn’t keeping to the point “This is the point,” said Terry mildly. “Is it worth risking a girl’s happy married life, or even of her marrying some well-set-up, decent, good-looking young fellow who'd made her a good husband—”

“It isn’t worth it! She’s talking sense, Auntie, Daddy! Let's not risk it; let’s drop this; I never really wanted to —”

“You’re so right, Miss Doris. How much better to settle this thing out of court, for, say, a couple of hundred pounds that would come in useful when you did want a trousseau “What? Two hundred pounds, did you say?” broke from Auntie with a laugh that was like the neigh of a warhorse. “Oh, no. No, thank you. Case or no case, you aren’t going to get out of this for two hundred pounds, nor nothing near!” CHAPTER IV.

“Don't tell me,” declaimed Auntie, “that two or three thousand pounds means anything to a young; man with his brother on the films earning hundreds a week. We know what these stars get —all the money in the world! And ”

Here the shop bell jingled again. Old Woolcott padded through the door to the counter, where he remained, no doubt thankful to have escaped this woman’s Parliament. The bickering went on . . “Troubles of his own? On that income? Pah! ” snorted Auntie. “Expenses? It’s his good-for-nothing brother that's put my niece to all this expense” — “Had Miss Doris already got her trousseau-dresses?”

Auntie hesitated; with all her disagreeable traits she was honest. “She hadn’t ordered any dresses, yet. But her trousseau undies —Perhaps you’d like to have a look at those?” Terry, being human and feminine, agreed that she would. “Then, Dorrie, you pop upstairs and fetch—Yes, the peach-pink set out of the bottom drawer,” said Auntie, with a curious change in her voice. “And, while you’re about it, let her see the pale-green ninon nightie.” With obvious pleasure in this errand, Doris went.

She returned bearing across her arm petal-pale flimsies which she spread carefully out over the sofa for Terry’s inspection.

An “Ah ” was drawn from Terry that expressed more than three columns of a fashion journal.

“Sweet,” agreed Doris, complacently, “aren’t they?”

“Something like lingerie, this, I don't care who says what,” declaimed Auntie, still in that altered voice—the voice of an enthusiast holding forth on a hobby. “What about the nightie. Look

She held filmy folds of ninon (faintgreen as the strip of sky that is sometimes to bo seen under a dusky bar of sunset-pi.'x) up against the loundeo form of her niece. Doris dipped her dimpled chin down on io the cieamy lace of the decollete.

“There. Five or six guineas wouldn’t buy one of those.” “You didn't buy these. Miss Woolcott?”

“I made every stitch myself," replied Aunt Mary. “Looked at models in the best shops, bought patterns, got materials in the winter sales and made ’em. There’s a little green velvet bedjacket. I'm going to make to match this nightie. I saw one. Sweetly pretty, but no better than I can do,” said Auntie —with what pride. She looked down upon these models of her handiwork, loving them with her eyes.- For who can tell what dormant sense of beauty and artistly had gone into those ex-pertly-faggotted seams, what wishdreams had found their only expression in the hemstitching, inserting of cobweb laces, and be monogramming of these trousseau-garments for the niece of an old man? Given happier circumstances Auntie’s ''drive' might have gone into making her an excellent and efficient wife, a devoted mother with a passion for sewing baby clothes. So —Who knows what tears, even, repressed tears of longing loneliness and regret might not have been included in ths niece's trousseau? “I doubt if you’d find anything lovelier than these at the most expensive place in Bond Street. If as lovely!" exclaimed Terry.

Gingerly she put down the gossamer fold of ninon with the ruffles that might have gauged by spiders, rather than human hands, and looked up at the creater of this loveliness. “You really are an artist.” She saw the unattractive face of Mary Woolcott change. It became for one instant the face, not of a woman harsh with years and sour with disappointment, but that of an artist drinking appreciation of her art. Possibly that sincere tribute of Terry s unstinted

admiration saved Terrys employer a couple of hundred pounds. . “Ah. you are back, Miss Grey. Well, what luck?”

Terry took from, her hand-bag the small square packet. “There are your brother’s letters to Miss Doris Woolcott. “Six,” she said. “I had to look at the beginnings and the ends to see that those were the ones. They are. I admit you were right in saying Miss Doris was not quite the gold-digger I thought. And the Woolcotts won't bring any action. I think it’s worth it, don’t you, for £350?” “You got round them for that?” “I did. At last. I nearly asked for discount for cash,” Terry laughed gleefully. She was flushed and brighteyed, stimulated as she had not been since she was a school girl, aware that she had done well in exams. “It was a good idea that you gave me an open cheque. ('Don't forget to make out the counterfoil.)” Half-incredulous relief broke out over the Star’s worried face. “Miss Grey, you’re a wonder. I could never have done it. If she'd demanded two thousand five hundred I’d have had to give it her on the spot."

“I-er-rathei’ forsaw’’that. But it's all right.” Quickly Terry sketched the outline of her afternoon's work. “There’ll be no more trouble, Mrs Lavery need not be distressed by hearing a word about it and your brother can marry his Bishop’s daughter ” Here Terry broke off to laugh. “Forgive me, but I've just remembered a rather amusing bit of the interview. As an insult, the aunt threw at me that I was “a paid secretary!” “Paid! There’s nothing that could pay for what you’ve done for us today. You,” said Valentine Lavery from his heart, “are a grand little woman ” Whereat Terry felt that she had been paid in full. Briskly she sat down again at the desk and asked if there were any letters.

“No. But look here, Miss Grey; do you by any chance happen to be free this evening?”

“I? Oh, yes,’ Terry laughed—a trifle wistfully. Her evenings were only too thoroughly disengaged. “Is there anything you want me to stop on and do for you?” “Do for me? I suppose it’s natural you should think I’m always wanting things done for me. No; what I meant was, that considering what's been achieved today we ought to celebrate. What about dinner and a show? Where shall we go that’s amusing?”

“It was the first time in all her twen-ty-seven years 6f life that these words had been addressed by any attractive young man to Terry Grey. Out of pure surprise at the novelty she simply did not know how to take it.

“Oh,” she said, blankly, “I am so afraid I can't- —”

“Can’t you make it?” He looked definitely disappointed. No! Surprised! That must be it, decided Terry. So surprised that any woan doesn’t jump at the chance of stepping out for the evening with a famous filmstar; but it’s no use, I couldn’t live up to that. “I thought,” added Lavery, “that you said you were free?”

“Yes. But —But my rooms are right away in Chelsea. There wouldnt be time for me to dress ” “Then don't let’s dress,” said Lavery, gaily. ’’All the better. Come along; we’ll go as we are.” Will we, indeed. And me in my coat and skirt and frump hat, thought the secretary. How like a man. They're always so pleased not to have to dress; they t&ke it for granted that any woman they invite out will be equally glad of the let-off! Which so exasperated Terry she was driven to explain; “Mr Lavery, after ‘the burden and heat of this day' I'm simply not fit to appear even at a teashop. But. if you’ll give me just an hour to rush back and have my bath and get into a clean frock —” “Right.” he said, obviously pleased. “Car’s garaged, I suppose? In an hour's time ”

The manager came bowing forward. The head-waiter created a scurry among his satelites. Heads turned, comments were made. The few yards Vai had to walk to his table reserved was a triumphal progress. Terry had been prepared for that—it was largely why her first impulse had been to cry off from his invitation.

Terry, feeling, “Well, here I'm not only second fiddle, but lucky to be in the band' followed. She had prepared to feel panic-stricken with shyness. She was not. “My frock,” she thought “is as good as anybody’s here"—such is the effect upon female psychology of this thought, that she put her smooth, brown-paper-coloured head in the air and felt good. She felt at ease, even confronted by waiters and a menu of a superiority that had never, so far. entered, her ken.

“Flower told me, th is place was good," remarked Lavery. "She’s always on the look-out for fresh amusing places. 1 say she has a Hair." Terry said something appreciative about Miss Armitage in a picture she had seen; she saw the Star's handsome eyes fill with pride.

“Yes. Marvellous, wasn’t she. I’m glad you liked that, Miss Grey; I thought it one of her best bits of work, myself. She’s dining with her director tonight: amusing if she brought him to this place." t "Yes. I hope she does." said Terry—and the thought occurred io her therc’d be not question here of any cracks about a man being caught out taking out the secretary —“I’m only his secretary at all because his fiancee, jealous enough to pink any pretty girl's eyes out on a fork, realised that I was safe, I wa.s unattractive, I'd got written all over me that —No! I'm not going to give another thought to what

(To be Continued.)

that woman said today about my being ‘not the marrying sort.’ It takes all sorts to make a world” —here, she put down her glass and Lavery saw her lips part, her head rise, and the eyes, which without spectacles were a particularly bright grey-green, not unattractive. open widely." "You seen somebody you know?” "I'm not quite sure." said Terry. The man who had caught her glance was sitting alone at the next table. He was sunburnt, lean, soldierly-looking. He lifted a head on which dark hair was well groomed and carefully brushed over thinning patches, and looked across at their table. “Yes, 1 know him," said Terry, with real pleasure in her tone. The man had half-risen, then, seeing Terry's small face brighten into a smile, he rose and made his way over. “Good evening, Terry!" he said, pleasantly. “It is Terry, grown up, isn’t it? Do you remember me?" “But. of course. I was not quite sure for a minute; you know I’m terribly short-sighted without my glasses. But I see now. You're the man we used to call Clive of India, who brought me those silver bangles and used to argue with Walter " She turned to Lavery and introduced them. "This is Major Clive Phillips, a very old friend of ours; Mr Valentine Lavery."