The Cosmopolitan, Volume 64

The Cosmopolitan, Volume 64

ered. In Hotel Fre donia, Hals, Rem

brandt, and Whistler, who painted adora tion into the tired, – wide bosom of maternity and the wrinkles of old age with a reverence that made old flesh holy, would have found pause. Here sixty walked on heels that six teen feared to tread. In the lobby, of eve nings, the massaged, marcelled mothers deluxe of a non-housekeeping era exchanged lap-dog pedigrees, almond creams, and tired husbands. Very presently, Mrs. uoth would emerge from the pink kimono and facial cream down into that lobby, a back-to-back version of a daughter whose pollen of skin no massage could emulate. “Sadie, you look beautiful! You’re a fashion-plate!” Miss Loth held up a languid cheek to be kissed.

“I guess it will be late when I get back. Cass is catching that eleven-twenty Detroit special.” “Let him blow you in an auto out to Grandview for sup per. Mr. Shelburne says it’s all the rage out there this season.” – “It’s not where you go makes an evening grand or not; it’s who you go with.” Mrs. Loth enclosed her daughter’s small face in the vise of her two hands. “Sadie, would mamma want anything that wasn’t for her girl’s good? Do I want to see my daughter a happy girl for the rest of her days with a man that can support her in style, or a drudge for some poor devil? Is mamma making every sacrifice, and is she willing to set back and do almost anything to see her girl happy? It ain’t only for myself, Sadie. If it was just to get rid of you, wouldn’t I have en couraged you to run with Charley Cooper that time, and then have had you both on my hands to support? I know more about life than you do, Sadie. The way you’ve been raised, even when we lived up in the flat, you ain’t the wife for a poor man.” “I never wanted this “Oh, yes; you think maybe you’d be satisfied the way we used to live when your poor father was alive, way up on Washington Heights where the dogs wouldn’t bark at us, but I know better. Your father was a good man, Sadie, but he held us down. There never was a fuss in that little flat up there that wasn’t over money. He couldn’t give up. There wasn’t a spending bone in his body. I know what it is to be held down, Sadie. Don’t turn up your nose at a fellow like Cass Howard. You hear, Sadie; it’s your mother talking to


you-your own mother that’s willing to make every sacri

fice. Don’t! You hear?” Miss Loth lifted her mother’s arms from her shoulders and turned to open the door. “Yes, mother; I hear,” she said, and went out, down the turkey-red aisle of hall carpet, a quarter of a mile of it, then toward the elevator—slowly. In a lower lobby of marble Corinthian columns with gold leaf acanthus leaves; red velvet, gold-fringed foyer-chairs; Circassian-walnut registration desk; a row of palm-itching bell-hops in converging lines of brass buttons; a bronze blind Nydia holding a fern-basket, Mr. Cass Howard rose from the extreme and cigarette-hazy depths of one of the red-velvet foyer-chairs, hitched a very elevated trouser-leg down over the newest of clocking in silk hose, tossed the just-lighted cigarette into the fern-basket, and strolled toward the bronze elevator, Miss Loth emerging. “Good-morning, Glory!” She clicked her very tall, very slim heels together and threw him a salute off the side of the fur turban. * * Hi!” He took her arm, moving with her into a small, deserted, red-and-gold anteroom. “How are you, beh-beh?” he said, his fingers closing ever so slightly into her arm. She withdrew, frowning, seating herself in a spacious chair that looked out upon the dusky wintry flow of upper Broadway. – “Haven’t I asked you a dozen times, Cass, not to call me that?” – “What?” “Whatever it is you call me.” “Beh-beh? Well, ain’t you my beh-beh doll?” “No, I’m not.” “What’s the matter with beh-beh? There’s not many girls I’d call that.” “I don’t like it. It sounds horrid.” He half sat on the generously upholstered arm of her chair, looking down into her face, flecking an imaginary something off the ermine-faced coat collar. “Touchy, ain’t you?” he said, his gaze from under half closed lids seeking to rivet hers. “Freshy’” she said, letting her gaze be captured. Then

The Freeman Perfume o. Dept. 99. Cincinnati, Ohio

Virtuous Wives (Continued from page 31)

passing. They ended amid a clapping of hands, and, flushed with pleasure and ex citement, she hastened to present Tody to her husband. “How do, Mr. Forrester?” said that self sufficient youngster. “I shake hands, but I really ought to knife you for carrying off Amy.” | “Ah were you interested?” “I?” said Dawson, flushing. “Why, didn’t you know I organized the Society of the Mitten?” “Indeed?” said Forrester, in his deep bass, looking at the product of the modern generation as a mastiff endures the antics of a lap-dog. Dawson’s soda-water wit bubbled out completely. He stood shifting from foot to foot, seeking a chance to escape. Brack en took pity on him. “I acknowledge the superiority of your legs, Dawson,” he said, with a shade of sar casm,..” but dance the tango as it really is danced.” “I say—do you know it?” said Dawson eagerly, as though before a great discovery. “By George, I wish you’d show us!” “Very glad to, if Mrs. Forrester will give me her assistance.” He turned to Andrew. “That won’t be asking too much of your wife, will it?” Forrester gave the implied permission with a nod of his head. Bracken passed to the piano, where he indicated to Laracy a slower rhythm and certain definite ac cents, and returning, bowed to Amy. “Will you do me the honor to dance it with me, Mrs. Forrester? There are cer tain steps you’ll pick up at once. We’ll dance it with very little movement of the body, slow, rather languid, quite stately.” In a few moments they were dancing in unison, in graceful, undulating rhythm. IIe held her well apart from 1 him, guiding her only with a slight pressure of the left hand, yet she was aware of his nearness. And, as she danced, she felt gloriously, triumphantly young. The brown vaulted hall and the staring strangers swam away. He paid her no compliment, except for an occasional nod of satisfaction, but in the gentleness of his voice, in the slight smile with which he watched her moving rhyth mically about him, she knew that he, too, had the same sense of spontaneous con geniality. “I am sorry we have to stop,” he said at last, with a sigh of regret. “I, too,” she answered, in the sa…me tone. They looked at each other a short mo ment and smiled with pleasure. Then they returned to the others and the general conversation. She knew that she would see him again soon. She looked forward eagerly to the moment when he would really talk to her, sure that they would find instant sympathy. Yet the agreeable impression he had thrown about her was so impersonal that, in their rooms, dressing for dinner, she said to Andrew: “Oh, I like Mr. Bracken! He seems really worth while.” “Bracken is a real man,” said Andrew heartily. “Which means that some of the others aren’t,” she said, laughing. “Poor Tody and Jap!” – “I don’t think I understand that speci

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