SUNDAY MAGAZINE for AUGUST 13. 19S
am his friend. Since he is not present to ay our
mines, let us I silent in loyalty to him. Is it
not so?"
lictlnine hail acquiesced. Which one f the
Chartres girls would have a fancy like that; And
her hands tiny. shapely, jeweled she was like a
princes-.! She talked charmingly about Dore
not, to lie -tire, so much alut what he had written
as alxmt what j-erfcot little dinners he gave, and
ho-.v he had lieen decorated by the King of Portu
gal, and what his great bare atelier was like. Pierre
Dore's friends were always helping him. she told
Hcthune. and Hethitne was sure that he hail given
l-i:is d'or for tlie sake of art and that he even had
met the King of Portugal.
Mademoiselle. Artcmesia, for her part, was en
chanted, lie ias so melancholy. so gentle. so
abstracted, anil so pour, thought Mademoiselle
Artcmesia. For, though he was wcll-drev-ed ami
:i gentleman, he ordered almost nothing, and he
ate up every crumb! Unconsciously the little
Ar:emeia found herself playing tile great lady and
exerting a charming air of patronage. The joor
young man with his melancholy eyes and hi.- lok
of verse:
It was not astoni-hing that two hours wore
away. !t was not astonishing, considering the
wily influences of Houston-st. and the later in
ll.icnces of Paris, that a sparkle of daring came into
M .demoiselle Artcmcsia's eves as thev rose at
last.
"For the sake of I'ierre Pore, monsieur." she
said, "who so loves the spring he ahays calls it
jtinquil-litue! .hall we not sjend an hour in the
park, near the jonquils I will tell my so dear
hii-iid i.hen I return home. His eyes v. ill fill with
tears."
Where was the Chart res girl who would have
the freedom from convention, the dignity, the jmetry
to suggest this? Young Itethune hugged his I'ierre
Dure ami in a kind of happy trance waited for her
lo come down.
When she approached him she was in a glory of
lilac and white, with a hat that Dore might have
written and a p.traso that he might have dreamed.
A smart motor w.is at the door, and away in the
sweet spring weather rolled the great lady ami the
xr young man with the melancholy eyes. At
tin- door Mademoiselle Artemesia had lotight
lloivers:
"(In account of the ;;;:' who sells them."
she cspl.iincd tran
quilly.
"Hers is a sad
life." said Betlnme.
"Hut so tragic
monsieur!" mur
mured mademoi
selle, herfaceaun ng
her da 'odils.
The talk went on
famously Had he
l'cen abroad' Xo.
Hi vcr. fo- Hethune.
senior. said that a
son of his should
never sjend a dol
lar outside his own
country while he
liv.-d Ah. then he
should go to Paris'
Pierre Dore was
not the only won
derful er-on in
Paris Hut he must
tell her alout this
country w hat
were its women
like"'
Hcthune deccri'
cd them, thinking
of the Chartres
girls with pity and
mademoiselle list
ened remembering
the tailor's wife
with a smile
And here were
the j ni mils that
Pierre Dore loved
dear Pterre Dore
it wa quite too
wondc'ful to h.te
fo'ttid his look in
A:ncr:i.t' And tlid
he, Hcthune, write
verses1 Sometimes,
said Hethune, from
whom wild Imrses
could not have
dr.igged this ad
missiun to a Char-
tres girl. Did she: Mademoiselle Artcmesia con
sulted the tips of her little white Imots. Only
sometimes, she admitted with adorable shyness.
She -turned to him impul-ivcly. "Moniour."
she I icgged. "let me send something that you have
written to Pierre Dore! He is always so interested
in everyone who is young and struggling!"
In tlie end Hethune recited some of his ver-es
to her. and though she said little she sat adorably
silent and nodded with grave eyes. A Miss Chartres
would certainly have put her head on one side and
prattled. As for mademoiselle, she was alluringly
patronising and gracious. She might have been
the (irand Duthess of Weimer extending a languid
hand to a new literary courtier.
"May may I hring you the verses to-morrow?"
said Hcthune humbly at tlie hotel door. He was
:i hit shamefaced at the sound of his own voice
sjieaking the literary courtier's lines: but she was
so ierfeetlr the patroness.
"Ah. tomorrow, monsieur!" she cried "for
the sake of dear Pierre Dore."
Mademoiselle Artcmesia swept up to her apart
ment, smiling. Flowers and notes awaited hvr. and
the frock in which she was to dunce tha't night was
laid upon a divan. She turned from these things
etulantly. To play the great lady, the patroness
of arts, the friend of the French poet that was
far more to her liking. Ah. the melancholy youth
who wrote verses and rdered so meager a ltunlicon
and ate up every crumb!
When Hcthune reached home he found an awn
ing over the street door. Within his father was rt fir
ing at some workmen.
"What is it. father?" inquired Hethune absently.
"Forgot your old dad's birthday, have you"
inquired Hethune. senior, with playful ferocity
"forgot your poor old dad's birthday party? Well,
he's fixed up a surprise on himself. You run along.
Hut lie on hand at nine to-night sharp."
Hecattse it was his father's birthday, and it
may Ik: liecause Hcthune was a little ashamed of his
morning superiority, he regarded his wishes, Char
tres would le there, he supposed, and his father
would wish him to be attentive to him. And
Chartres was deaf, and he said everything thnv
times as if his words were made of p itty and must
le patted into shape. Hethune entered the drawing-room
wearily at half-after nine. At the room's
far end a stage had Iwn erected.
"The whole fJoldcnhciiner Brothers" Show,"
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contidc.1 Hethune. senior, hoarsely, slapjving his
son on the back as familiarly as if they had been
brought up together. "What do you think of that,
eh? My idea. Your old dad's idea!"
Hethune turned away, and jierforce sought out
Chartres. who was ju-t telling, as having happcind
to himself, a story that had been in that morning's
paj-er. Hethune listened, much as a literary
courtier might attend to a conversation upon
hydraulic elevators, and he thought alxiut da'Todils,
and existed someway until the curtain went up.
And there she stood her laces clouding al-otit
her. jewels in her hair and da'Todils on her breast
Mademoiselle Artcmesia. great lady, friend of the
French poet, patron of the arts and of Hcthune.
and fmtin-rr iiiK.v;tri.
Hethune ihu-i have gasped, liecause Chartres
lioti cd it.
"This is splendid!" said Chartres. "This is
splendid! And it's wonderful too yes.it i.s! A few
years ago she was a flower girl. Yes, on my life!
tlouvr girl. Tended flower stand at the Savoy."
"Savoy?" uttered Hcthune.
Chartres nodded. "I sat by the door this morn
ing." he said, screwing in his monocle," when she
came out. I sat !chind the door this morning. I
knew it was she. IremcniKTcdhcr 1 knewatome."
At the close of the act Hethune. senior, came up.
and his son had the grace to smile; for the !y was a
good sort.
"Cireat show." said Hethune. senior. "Stavin
fine idea of your old dad's! (iUi-ss we must get a
1hi there some night before long ch. 'lussie?"
His son was tearing to pieces one of the daffodils
which Mademoiselle Artcmesia had thrown to the
audience.
"Let's invite Mr. Chartres and the girls" he
said aside.
Just Oeivc W -ma c btv
By Jeanctte Robinson Murphy
WHIiX the negroes in some sections of the South
are in need of money they have an interesting
way of raising it. by giving what they call "fails."
A small cabin will hold al-oiit twenty sitting
down and one hundred standing up. For days
the mother of the family cooks a great abimdatue
of good things to cat: chicken. i"-rk, pies, cakes,
salads. cortt-liTcail and cow-peas ,lt- some season
able vegetable. Then she invites her n ighl-ors. and
they come in great crowds and generously buy the
viands from her at
so much a plate.
They st 11 the i. e
crcam at leu cents
a plate and cake
for tittccn cents and
the flit d chkkeil
at live cents, and
often tlear alcove
all c. discs even
as mi'th as thirtr
dollars.
I asked a woman
to descrilie how
she got up the
fair She gave me
a minute dcscri
tion. and ended
with this bit of in
formation when I
askt d her to tell me
how she- got the
crowd to come in
such large num
1 rs every time she
gave her fair:
"N'o'm. Ah don't
send no invite to
nobody. Ah just
went to pmyer
mcctin. say Wed
nesday night last,
and lift it git out!"
I said "I low-did
you let it get out?
Didn't jottsetid any
in itat ions. J inly "
"N'o'm, I jis'let it
git out' I jis" tell
ore "oman!"
"What woman?"
I in uircd. "You
n can the mother of
the t hurth?"
"Xo'm. any 'o
man 1I do; I jes
til! one 'oman
one 'oman's gotnl
;is "not her. Jis' fi
you tell any "oman,
she'll kt it git out."
V
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