OH! HOW SHE LOVED HIM!

Ladies' Mirror, Volume I, Issue 3, 1 September 1922, Page 22

OH! HOW SHE LOVED HIM!

An Effort to Achieve one of Those Mushy American Magazine Stories r PHE first thing that struck Con Dithers as he leant his massive arms on the massive window ledge of the sitting-room of the suite he had taken in the Pretoria Hotel, that frowned above a street in a district that a man in his home town (arc you still with me?) had told him was the swellest part- of the city, as that he was indeed there. The second thing was that this cosmic conglomeration of sky-high

buildings, this never-ceasing roar of traffic on Broadway—a reference to the never-ceasing r.o.t. on Broadway is an essential part of such stories as this—this skin piercing, soul searing consciousness of the sudden microscopic value of his entity were all mighty new sensations 9 to a fellow whose father owned three business blocks in Thermopylae, Mo., and who ran his roadster with never a thought of the soaring price of gasoline. He was twenty-seven years four months and two days old. An air of the great out-of-doors hung about him, for he spent all the time that was not devoted to the furthering of the family business in hoeing onions in the onion patch, except when he was joy-riding in his roadster, playing pool and poker, getting shaved, massaged and manicured, or lounging in hotel lobbies. Evenings, he was mostly up at the Hinkses. A-a-h! He heaved a sigh that pushed the massive window ledge an inch nearer the vacuity of space that brooded over the street, and shifted his tooth-pick from one finely-cut corner of his mouth to the other. It was to test his love for Eulalie de Courcey Hinks that he had left Thermopylae, Mo., and come west to the City of Gotham, or Babylon-on-the-Subway, or even New York, which last appellation is perhaps the most widely known. Of course, the Hinkses were poor in comparison with the Ditherses hut he whs willin (r to disregard the vast social barrier that separated them. He had said as much.

"Eulie,’’ he had often said, evenings, "say,... your inferiority to me don’t worry me worth a cent. If I’ve got the money, you’ve surely got no cause to wear a veil in public. I'll say that to the world.” AND the world would willingly have accepted the pronouncement. Eulie was just one of those girls whose portraits appear on magazine covers, a blue-eyed blonde, with the reddest, moistest, curvedist, provocativest, mockingest, wistfullest mouth that ever opened to receive the con 7 tents of a box- of candy. And she was crazy about him. In everything he said, she agreed with Con. The simplest country mouse had nothing on her in the humble * stuff. And perhaps it was the hint of the brute in him, combined with his massiveness, and his air of the great out-of-doors, that welded her closer. She’d have walked up Main Street with her nose unpowdered if he had asked her. Also she realised that Con’s father’s money made him a gentleman, and was grateful for his condescension. Why the Ditherscs had a crest on their notepaper that they’d copied from an English hardware advertisement. That’ll show you. But one night, after unlocking himself from Eulalie’s farewell embrace, and getting safely on to the sidewalk. Con had wondered if his was really true love, or merely an atavistic instance of prehistoric passion. So he fixed it to make a quick trip to New York, and give a try-out to the absence - makes - the-heart-grow- fonder theory. Which takes us back to the beginning of the story. Sentimentally, Con unsighed himself, and the massive window ledge returned to its accustomed place. He decided to go to a cabaret, and deliberately seek temptation. His was to be an acid test. If he fell for a good-looker on Broadway, he didn’t love Eulie; if he didn’t, he did. That was the way Con had figured it out. Turning back to the room, he gave his nails a final scrape with the file-blade of his penknife, lit a cigarette, picked up his hat. coat, cane and gloves, and walked to the elevator. "W/'HILE preserving his brutal ap- ” pearancc, Con was a dandy dresser. Hearts fluttered a-plenty as he sauntered along, his evening coat flung back to display his close-fitting Tuxedo, faced with black velvet, and caught across his white satin waistcoat with a broad, black silk ribbon, his hat tilted aggressively on his wellshaped head, and his gloved hands alternately grasping his gold-topped cane or swinging nonchalantly by his massive side. Then Con got what he was looking for. There, in front of him, stood a girl. Just imagine all the vamps you’ve read of, seen, or dreamt about, and then distil the essence. She was that, and some more. “Say, kiddo,” said Con in his easy, gentlemanly style, “you look good to me. Let me blow you to a supper.” She rather liked him. “Sure,” she said, “I’m your little girlie. Lead on.” Con hailed a taxi, gave a smart addressanother tip from the man at home—and in a few minutes they were cosy behind some palms in a place that charged you five dollars a time to look around. “This is a bit rough on my wad. Baby,” he said in a cultured, conversational vein. “But you can go - the limit. I’m a free spender, and it’s yours for all the cream in the milk bottle of life this evening.” He gave an order to an exceptionally soft-footed waiter, and sat back chewing a gold and crimson handed cigar. As it was inconvenient to speak with it in his mouth, he removed it, and leant forward.

"Say, Honeybunch,” he said gallantly, “don’t you like me just a little bit?” » For an answer she flung her arms, redolent with a maddening perfume, round his neck, and kissed him liquidly and fervently, her eyes shut in an utterness of surrender, her nose white with an excess of meretricious comradeship, or perhaps powder. . Con drew.- back with a creaking shirt front, and a pang at his heart. Was this fair to Eulie? Was he doing right ? Did he love Eulie, or didn’t he? Was this doubt as to the rectitude of that kiss an indication that, after all. he did? 1 Had —? But a voice cut short his wild questionings. His mother stood before him. “Con,” she said softly, and he started at the sound. “Con, come to me, Honey Boy, come home. The whippoorwills are calling now over old man Rooney’s dustbin, the last trolley car is rattling down Lincoln Avenue, the moon is rising through the cotton woods. Come home, sweetie. I’ve followed you all the way, with a pie I’ve cooked, in my pocket. Take it now, lovie: these eats are no good for your stomach. And there’s someone I left outside who wants you, too. Come, Con, come home with Momma.” Yes. it was his mother who stood there beseeching him, and brushing the palm leaves away from her face. Con rose with a sob in his throat, took the pic. and stumbled out from the glitter of lights into the street, his mother’s arms supporting him. Incidentally he left the vamp to pay the cheque. And there, in a taxi, tearful and yearning, with another pie in her little hands, he found—who do you think? Oh. go on, have a guess. What, Eulie? You've got it! Yes, he found Eulie.

Passionately and pief ully they kissed, while Momma, the taxi-man, and the arc lights shed a benison on them. Then off they went to collect his grip from the Pretoria, and so to the Grand Central. Early the next morning. with the dawn turning the dew to diamonds, it was a happy mother, a grateful son, and a loving wife-to-be that the mail east bore back to Thermopylae, Mo. I hope it didn’t bore you. (This is a pun).