HANDMAID TO FAME

Wairarapa Times-Age, 9 February 1939, Page 12

HANDMAID TO FAME

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT COPYRIGHT.

BY

BERTA RUCK.

CHAPTER IV. Continued.

The soldier nodded and said, “How d’you do?” with an inquiring interested glance at Valentine Lavery. “Film bloke!” he thought. It was to be seen in his eyes, so much more animated than the rest of his face, a regimental mask made more impassive by that thick coat of tropical sunburn “What is little Terry doing running about with him? Fellow seems all right, though.” All this was obviously going through the soldier’s head as he asked Terry about her family. He was only just home on leave and knew nothing. “How about old Walter? What, married again? Well, well! Terry get on well with the step-mother? Only a girl, eh? Boys fit? Where would one get hold of them all? Telephone numbers were scribbled. “I’ll ring up, if I may,” the soldier said. “You'll spare your old friend an evening, Terry, will you?’ Incredibly improved, this girl. Astounding; case of ugly duckling turning into a graceful swan. “I seem to hear that you were thinking of taking a job with a Member of Parliament —did that come off?”

“Oh, yes, it came off. It went on for eight years until poor old Sir William Wainwright died the other day." “Eight years! By jove! And what are you doing now, Terry?” “Working for Mr Lavery,” said Terry, with a twinkle, as she thought of the unusual job of work which had been hers for Mr Lavery this afternoon (call that being a secretary!). “I represent hand-maid to fame.” “Oh, do you? Quite. Well, I’ll be seeing you.” He nodded, smiled pleasantly and went back to his table. “It never rains, but it pours,” Terry told her spectacular escort. “I mean that for eight years, month after month, when I was working with Sir William I honestly came across nothing, except the same routine day after day.” “But that was at work. After six o’clock, surely a girl leads quite' a different life.”

“Lots of girls may; I was one of the exceptions. Adventures are to the adventurous, I suppose I’m the non-ad-venturous sort. Anyhow, nothing did happen. But now in one day—there was all this terrific excitement down in the village, then there’s being taken out to dinner by a celebrity”—she acknowledged Lavery’s amused little bow with a bow of her 1 own, then there’s meeting Clive of India, whom T haven’t seen foi' nine years ”

“Who will probably not allow you to say that nothing happens out of working hours. I think I saw in his eye that he meant you to show him about a bit.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose I shall see much of him. He’s Walter’s—my father’s friend. He’ll probably put in most of his time with Walter and Sylvia, that’s my pretty young step-mother.” A strain of heart-reaching melody stole out into the air close beside her. Terry turned. A swarthy gipsy violinist from the Hungarian orchestra and detached himself from his mates and had sidled close up to their table, to play one of those haunting mid-Euro-pean melodies into the eyes of the young lady inthe lace dress at Mr Lavery’s table. What next, indeed! Terry, half-en-chanted, half-abashed, smiled back at the gipsy violinist. When the tune finished she softly clapped her hands. The gipsy gave a Hash of teeth and eyes as of homage to a pretty woman, and moved off backwards with a profound bow as for royalty.

“I feel,” Terry murmured, “like that old lady in the nursery rhyme: — ‘lack-a-daisy me, this is none of I’ “Lavery did not answer. He had not heard. He was looking beyond Terry, above the swart head of that gipsy with the violin, and towards the entrance to the dining room. That entrance was frame to a picture so lovely that not only our humble Terry, but any other woman in that restaurant might have felt herself in comparison unattractive and outshone. Orchids smothered one milk-white shoulder; over the other she was turning a perfect profile to smile at her escort. . 1

They came forward; the lights set the blonde’s gold dress sparkling like champagne. Laughter, gay as the garian music, trilled from her beautifully made-up mouth. “There’s Flower!” had broken from Lavery, who had looked as if the sun had just come out, but now it went in again. Abruptly he exclaimed: “Who’s the man she's got with her?”

Terry glanced towards the dark, heavy-shouldered, rather floridly-hand-some man in the Lovely's wake. Isn 1 that Miss Armitage’s director?” “Her director? Mr Goldberg? No. I know old Goldberg. But I—er—oh. yes; she’s with a friend of theirs," said Vai Lavery, casually. He was not going to admit to his secretary how badly jolted he was to see his fiancee, who had told him that tonight she was dining with the Goldbergs, sail in here smiling her sweetest at a man Vai did not know. “Why, look who’s here!” exclaimed Flower Armitage. For her eye had been caught by the couple even before Vai himself had seen her entrance. She swept up to the table where her fiance sat with the girl in beige lace. “Vai, an d—l didn’t for the moment recognise you, Miss Grey.” She held out an exquisitely rose-tipped hand; a friendly gesture, only a trifle patronising. “Really, it's astonishing how different people can look in evening dress, and without spectacles. I thought Vai was entertaining some charming stranger. There was an edge to the good-hu-mour with which Vai s fiancee spoke. Oh, an edge! Actually Flower Armitage was one of the most suspicious

women anyone need expect to meet. Hers was the jealously centred on self. She had to be the centre of attraction. It didn’t matter to whom—whether it was the man she was going to marry, or her Public, or the youngest of the stagehands.. That was why —as Terry had already guessed—no pretty or attractive young woman was to be admitted as Vai's secretary. And now —what did she find? Vai had taken out to dinner the very girl whom she, Flower, had chosen because she was the sort of girl with whom a man wouldn’t want to be seen out. Here she was, the Grey girl, lookreasonable frock . . No glasses? Hail looking awful, of course.- Skin? Fairly drab. But good eyes. Too good; couldn’t have this . . Presently Vai would be noticing another girl’s eyes, thought Flower, even in the second as she smilingly introduced her own companion. “This is Mr Elmer K. Osgood Even Terry had heard this name. It was that of a multi-millionaire. “Mr Osgood is staying with the Goldbergs.” explained Flower Armitage, quickly, "and as Mrs Goldberg had a bit of a headache, and didn't feel keen on coming out, I said I would take on Mr Osgood and show him some amusing small place where one could dance This Mr Osgood, is the Unfortunate Vai Lavery; you know, they told you I was engaged to him —” “Pleased to meet a very fortunate man,” contributed the dark, rather massively good-looking American — though he was not pleased. What man is pleased who has been looking forward to an evening of dining and wining and afterwards dancing with one of the prettiest girls he has met in years, when he discovers his tete-a-tete must be broken up into a party —a party given by the man who—lucky brute—is engaged to marry that girl?” Chairs were moved, so that Mr Osgood and Flower should sit at Vai’s table. Two duets became a quartet, out of tune at that.

“What’s the matter with this place tonight?” began Flower, even with the lobster-cocktail. “It seems dead. Nobody here. Not "a good frock in the room, either . . .”

“You can’t say that, Miss Armitage” protested the American. For one moment he removed his eyes from Flower’s face to glance admiringly at Flower’s gown. Then they were back, those handsome, delighted eyes, on Flower’s face.

“Confound this Yank,” thought Vai. Jealousy tore at him. His fiancee’s excuse for having left the Goldbergs seemed to Vai. thin. Simply she wants to be with this man Osgood, this multimillionaire. It’s not as if this fellow were the typical millionaire and the age of dear, tubby old Goldberg. Dashed if he looks a day over thirtyfive. He hasn’t evep the decency to look dyspeptic and as if he spent his days indoors, dollar-making. No; this Osgood blighter is at fit as a fiddle. Vai hated him for it.

Smartingly jealous was Vai of the Arnerican plutocrat, all the more so because money problems were beginning to loom disturbingly on this filmfavourite’s horizon.

Enviously jealous was the American of the Englishman’s luck. Flower was jealous because she felt her prestige shaken. Furious was Flower with her lover this evening, not only for dining out with his secretary, but for being thus discovered when she had to introduce him to the Great Mr Osgood. The American would think that she couldn’t keep her men. Quite livid was Flower and temper began to show even through her veneer of prattling sweetness. Terry wondered: “Is —or isn’t there a real woman behind all this?” “Will you allow me?” suggested the American as the orchestra swung into a delicious waltz. He spoke in halfragging humility to Vai..

Vai said carelessly—"to dance with Flower? Rather, of course!”

Off they went; the American, confound him, danced as superbly as they all do.

Vai turned to Terry. "Do you care to?”

“Do you mind.” said Terry nervously, “if we watch the others?” Actually she had been longing to dance. But not now. The evening had been spoilt for her. She and Vai sat, exchanging rather stilted comments until the othe rtwo returned to the table. Flower was still in no amiable mood. “This floor’s fairly indifferent —” “Let me try it with you, will you?” said her fiance. They swung off to the tune of the moment, and Osgood, the handome American, sat down by forgotten little Terry. “Don’t you like to dance, Miss Grey?" Terry apologised, said she was rather tired.

“It doesn’t sound right to me, any girl living too tired to dance. Miss Armitage is a wonderful dancer.”

“Yes, isn’t she.” “A wonderful girl, altogether," pronounced the American, following with his eyes that lovely swaying shape of gold and ivory. “A marvellous artist; did you see her performance in “The Love-Planet?" Naturally, an artist of her calibre is temperamental. She varies like a beautiful white cloud. I’ve noticed that. She was all gaiety, while I drove her this afternoon: this evening she’s slumped. Brooding. The interpretation of something in her next part is getting her bothered. I guess. We must figure out how to cheer Miss Flower up ” and so on. Poor wall-flower Terry thought again “Lucky Flower!”

She could see that Vai, as he danced. was earnestly muttering into his love’s ear. The American beside Terry turned with an obvious effort from watching them and asked Miss Grey if she had even been in the States? Miss Grey admitted sadly that she had never been out of England. “Never,” admitted Terry, crushed.

Crushed was the word! There was another hour of this for her; sitting in the radiant, noisily gay place, watching ’ other girls being shown a marvellous timq, knowing that all three people in her own party were busy with their own preoccupations and thoughts that had nothing to do with Terry Grey, forgotten handmaid to fame. She sensed that jealousy—jealously, that is "cruel as the

grave —•• jealousy, the one human passion that can make the human being look at the same time terrible and silly—was darting in poisoned shafts across the table and back—between the two men, between the lovely engaged girl and her lover. “All making themselves so unhappy Terry sensed. "Probably al) over nothing!” She herself ached with a new nameless unhappiness. Not yet was she conscious that she, too, was jealous. “I know one thing,” Terry told herself as she got into bed that night, having been put down at her rooms by Mr Vai Lavery before he drove with Flower Armitage and the American back to the Ritz. “It is altogether a crashing mistake for the mere ’handmaid,” to associate on the social plane with her boss. That, after all, is the situation. Never again. Too uncomfortable. Never!” But hand-maiden proposed, the Famous Ones of Earth disposed otherwise. (To be Continued.;