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| Beauty’s Daughter jj
jj By KATHLEEN NORRIS • • • *“r |j CHAPTER Xl—Continued —l7 “All right, Serena,” she said half aloud, apostrophizing the dim light that shone in the window she knew to be Serena’s window. “All right —wait for him to telephone. He will. He said five minutes ago that he’d empty the ashtrays and lock the doors, and that always means he’s going to telephone you. Let him tell you he’s had a ‘talk with Vicky, and she was surprisingly sensible,’ and say, ‘Ah, lover, then maybe we can begin to play tomorrow!’ “But from now on it’s my will against your admirable little-girl in nocence, Serena. He’ll never get free of me, for I’ll never consent to it. He’ll never marry you - while I live, and I’m not going to die! I’m going to be right here, and after a while you’ll give in because there’s nothing else for you to do. You be long to him now—and I know it, while he was telling me how strong you were, how controlled you were! You’re his now—you’ve had all you’re going to have from him—the rest is all mine! I’m the wife, and my children are the children, and I can wait. I’ll know it all, and I’ll keep still—l’ll be pitied, and women will hint things to me, and I’ll keep still! “You take your day, Serena —go ahead! Take a year, take two years. Flatter him, and meet him for lunch, and take his presents, and hate me. Hate me because I won’t give you your way. But in the end I’ll win!” Victoria and Violet Keats sat on the Hardisty lawn on a hot spring afternoon and discussed, with limi tations, their husbands and chil dren, their homes, servants, and friends, their lives generally. The long Saturday had been spent by Violet and her own quartette, of youngsters with the Hardisty troop; now it was late afternoon, and the problem of getting Kate, Duna, Bunty, and Babs Keats amicably separated from Gwen, Kenty, Sue, Dicky, Bobs, and Madeleine Har disty was like an uneasy under current to the women’s talk. “I suppose you couldn’t leave them all with us, Vi?” “What, all four of them!” Violet ejaculated. “I couldn’t leave one. Mother’s birthday tomorrow.” “I’d forgotten that—although I sent her flowers.” “Did you really think to send her flowers, Vic?” “I did, and a book.” “You’re charming, and she really loves you, and always has,” Violet said, touched into a rare display of feeling. “I don’t know why you worry so about this baby of yours,” she added, going back to earlier talk. “He may be just slow. Duna was terribly slow; he didn’t walk until he was nineteen months old.” Vic looked down at the yearling baby in her lap. “Marty’s not slow,” she said gen tly. “It’s more than that, Vi. My own boy!” The last was murmured to the child, who looked up at her with smiling blue eyes. Small and re laxed and secure, he lay in her arms. He never fretted, he did not seem sick, but this littlest of the Hardistys had only been loaned to her for a while, and his mother knew it. 1 “Quentin think so?” Mrs. Keats asked abruptly. “You’ve had an other opinion?” “Knows so,” Victoria spoke mild ly, but her whole body was torn with a sigh. Violet was silent. “Isn’t it strange?—this little fel low means more to Quentin than any of the others did. He’s always loved them as soon as they got in teresting, but only this one from the very start!” “All men are like that,” Violet put into the pause. “Martin he adores. It’s strange,” Vic mused. “He’ll come home night after night and sit holding him. He used to say Marty understood him; he doesn’t say that now, he doesn’t say anything.” “I feel so badly for Quentin,” Vicky presently continued. “For Quentin?” Mrs. Keats’ tone was sharp and quick. She appar ently reconsidered what else she might have added, and when she spoke again her tone was milder. “I feel sorry for you, my dear,” she said. “I think you’re a re markable woman, Vicky.” “Oh, thank you!” Vicky answered gratefully, with a little flush. “And so does everyone else,” Vio let persisted. “And sometimes there is someone I’d like to talk to!” she added, significantly. Vic’s eyes laughed, but there was a glint of warning in them, too. “Because I adore Quentin —we both do,” Violet proceeded further. “We both do,” she repeated, trying to open a door. “Quent’s a genius,” Vic said simply, closing it once and for all. “Kow’d he like Germany, Vic?” ti vnrpan f ked, abandoning t ;1 “He had a remarkable experi ence. He stayed with the Von Hoff mans and almost worked himself to death. But he said it was a won derful experience.” “He got home last week, you said?” “Last Saturday. He looks thin, older, somehow,” Victoria said. “Ah, here they all come!” Panting, breathless, exhausted, the children now emerged from cover and flung themselves about on the lawn. They ranged from Kate Keats and Gwen, sixteen years old apiece, to Madeleine Hardisty, who was four. Brown, tall, hand some children in white shirts and tan shorts, they glowed, sparkled, shone with the beauty of bright eyes and clear skin, flashing teeth and tumbled masses of rich soft hair, firm young legs and arms. They had had luncheon on the lawn today; had had two swims of in determinate length. Now Susan’s brilliant thought was that the Keatses should stay to supper, and that they should make it a picnic. Victoria considered this temperate ly. “But Aunt Vi says that tomor row’s their Gran’s birthday.” “But couldn’t we go home on the train after dinner? Duna’d take us; he could take us the way he did the circus day?” Kate Keats pleaded eagerly. “Oh, no, it’s too much of an im position, Vic!” Violet said. “It’s no imposition at all,” Vicky assured her. She looked up over “All Right, Serena,” She Said Half Aloud. the baby’s head and her eyes wid ened, although she did not smile. “Here’s Quentin!” she added. There was a general swarm of children toward him, accompanied by the usual deafening uproar, and Quentin came up to the women with the younger members of his family hanging on him like limpets. Violet Keats thought he looked older indeed; there were touches of silver on his Indian-brown temples, and he seemed quieter, somehow; more like the old remembered Quentin; she liked the expression of his face. He as genuinely happy to see her; kissed her in the old brotherly fashion; they had not seen each other since his return from a three months’ visit to Germany. Violet questioned him about it, and he sat holding the delicate little Martin very gently in his big hands, and sometimes kissing the top of the ba by’s dark fluffy little head. The question of the Keatses remaining was presently raised. “Next year—gosh, I can drive Un cle Quent,” Duna Keats said man fully. “But gosh, Dad doesn’t want me to until I get a license.” “But look here, Vicky,” Quentin said, with his face brightening. “I’ve got to go to San Francisco and see a patient tonight; a woman we operated on this afternoon. I told them I’d be in about ten. Why not let me drive these roughnecks in with me, if their mother’s will ing?” The ensuing wild pandemonium of the lawn in the spring sunset pres ently resolved itself into definite pic nic plans. The children were to use the grill behind the old cow yard. “Good to get home, Quentin?” Violet asked. “Yes,” he said quietly, unsmiling ly. “It’s good to get home.” “Well,” Violet said, stirring, “I have to go. I must get started. You’re sure my youngsters won’t be horribly in the way tonight, Quentin?” “In the way? Love to have ’em. I’ll drop them at the house some time after nine.” “I’ll go in with you, Vi, and see you off.” Victoria stretched her arms for the baby. “You come along with your mother, Mister,” she said. “Nurse has something to say to you, young manl” MIDLAND JOURNAL, RISING SUN, MD. She called over her shoulder to Quentin. “Coming?" “I thought I’d sit here and have a smoke. It’s so peaceful, Vic!” “Oh, and stop at the barn before you come in, and see Moogy’s pup pies. Claus had some story about the little brown one. I told him you’d come out!” Smiling, he turned the corner of the barn. A woman was standing there waiting for him. Serena. CHAPTER XII She was in pale blue, the broad straw hat that dipped about her face and lent an almost too pictur esque beauty to her appearance had a childish blue ribbon about it; the pale scallops of the frail blue gown swept the young spring grass. Se rena’s eyes were at their bluest, too, grave loving, reproachful. “Lover, I had to see you,” she said. “Was this terribly stupid of me? I had to see you.” Quentin had involuntarily glanced back toward the garden and the house. He and she were sheltered by a dozen intervening hedges and trees and angles of fence. He looked at her unsmilingly. “I don’t quite like it,” he said deliberately. “Why, I went to see Victoria and her mother often while you were gone, why shouldn’t I?” the woman said, in a sort of proud impatience. “Don’t look so serious; nothing hap pened! Darling, I had to see you. You know that I have to see you?” He looked at her without speak ing. “What is it, dear?” she asked tenderly. “What have I done?” Quentin Hardisty spoke quickly, almost with his professional man ner: “You’ve done nothing, of course. Don’t take that tone —don’t speak like that.” “Oh, but I will speak like that,” Serena persisted lovlingly. “Surely I have the right just to ask you what I’ve done, Quentin, how I’ve offend ed you?” “You haven’t offended me at all. I—l wrote you months ago—before I went to Germany—” “I know you wrote, me,” the woman said, as he hesitated flound ering and confused. “Why did you write me that hideous letter, Quen tin? I only began it; I couldn’t fin ish it. It’s burned.” “I’m horribly sorry, of course,” Quentin said gruffly, awkwardly in the silence. “Sorry!” the rich sweet voice echoed. "But what are you sorry about, dearest dearest? Remember what you told me in the beginning, that you had been twice married without ever knowing what real love was, lover, that you and Vicky had acknowledged that, had married with your eyes wide open. Remem ber?” “We can’t talk about this here,” Quentin interrupted, in a hard, cold voice. “Where can we, then?” Serena asked, with a touch of steel in her own tone. “You got back a week ago today, I’ve not seen you until now. What about tonight? Can you come over about ten? Spencer’s tired; he’ll be in bed.” “I’ve got to go up to San Fran cisco tonight, I’ve a patient at the Dante hospital.” “Then I’ll go with you.” “You can’t. The Keats children are all here; I’m taking them in.” “Then I’ll go in and drive back with you.” “I think Kenty’s planning to do that.” “Kenty! As if you couldn’t put him off! Ah, lover,” Serena plead ed, coming close to him, pressing his arms with her own soft arm - and hand, “tell me what’s wrong, tell me what I’ve done.” “I tried to tell you in that let ter,” Quentin said, looking down into the tear-misted blue eyes raised to his own. "It’s a horribly hard thing to say, I—l think we both feel it. It’s all been a—it’s the sort of thing that can’t—” Serena drew off a little, still look ing into his eyes. "You mean that you’re going to punish me, for loving you, Quentin? You’re going to make me feel sorry that I loved you so generously, gave you everything I could give? You’re going to make me wish that I was calculating and wise, like other women? Are you going to fail me now?” “It isn’t a question of failing you, Sina. It’s that—well, I know we’re both sorry for the whole thing,” Quentin persisted miserably. Serena was regarding him with narrowed eyes; her breast moved visibly on constrained breath. “You mean for me to go on quietly living with Spencer,” she said, in a level voice, “and for you to go back to Vicky. You mean that you think, knowing what she might some day know, Vic will forgive you, and everything will be lovely?” (TO BE CONTINUED) They're Not All Professors — Those Absent-Minded Ones Absent-mindedness isn’t con fined to the professors, says the Commentator. The late Dwight W. Morrow once telephoned his secretary from Philadelphia, to inquire, “What am I in Philadelphia for?” Secretary Henry A. Wallace, when he was in Czechoslovakia, packed his passport in a trunk that was shipped to London, while he set off in the opposite direc tion. And J. David Stern, publisher of the New York Post and Philadel phia Record, was hurrying along Helper of Humanity He who helps a child helps hu manity with a distinctness, with an immediateness, which no other help given to human creatures in any other stage of their human life can possibly give again.—Phil- lips Brooks. From the Firestone plantations in Liberia SM comes an evcr-incrcasing supply of the world's finest rubber. Money saved here and in manufacturing and distribution R< enable Firestone to sell a safer, first-quality Hjß tire at lower prices. GIVE YOIMMORE FOR YOUR MONEY quality and extra safety into these tires and sells them at lower prices because Firestone controls at lower cost. —eight extra pounds of rubber are added to every 100 pounds of cord because every fiber M B v of every cord in every ply is saturated with ijjjjpl liquid rubber by the Firestone patented 1 i vS 4 D lllllli YOU 6ET EXTRA protection against skidding ■ —because the tread is scientifically designed. °f e extra-tough, long-wearing tread. for passenger caws equipping your carjvith a set of new Firestone 4.75-19.. 9*55 HEUVT DUTY U FDON’T RISK YOUR LIFE Bp on smooth worn tires: .$tANt °° YOU KNOW F'* * J* * THAT last year highway accidents cost the lives o i more than MfOOO SENTINEL men, women and children? 4 40-21 . .$5.65 4.75-19 • .$6.70 THAT a million more were injured! 4C0.70** 6.05 5 00.19.. 7.20 THAT more than 40,000 of these deaths and injuries were caused 4.50- •> 5.00-19.. 7.4 W directly by punctures, blowouts and skidding due to smooth, 4.50- 0.35 5,25-18.. 0.00 WO rn, unsafe fires? OTHER SIZES PROPORTIONATELY LOW 7irsfatu CSSSJM w:jx c° u|E m w 4.40-21..55.431k75.19.. 56.37 tlZZX'cL'V.iWk' V m W Listen to the Voice of Firestone Monday evenings over Nationwide N. B. C. Red Network the street when he met a friend. “Come on and have lunch with me,” the friend said. “If we go nearby,” Stern said. “I’m late as it is.” They entered the nearest res taurant and sat down. Stern com plained that he didn’t know what was the matter with him, he didn’t seem to be hungry. “Beg pardon, sir,” the waiter said, “but it’s no wonder, sir. You just finished your lunch about ten minutes ago.” Clouds Pass By The clouds I feared and wor ried about, and concerning which I wanted so much precious strength, lost their frown and re vealed themselves as my friends. Other clouds never arrived—they were purely imaginary, or they melted away before they reached my threshold.—J. H. Jowett. - A Great Motto /"\NE of America’s great busi ness organizations has adopt ed a motto for the guidance of its people—a little five-letter word with a big meaning. It has been. 1 cut in huge granite letters over the entrance of a recently con structed building used as a train ing school. It is made the theme of many employee discussions. It hangs over the desk of company executives. The word is THINK. Educators, philosophers, preach ers throughout the ages have written and talked about it. Rodin gave the world a famous statue called “The Thinker.” “Think” is a significant word. It represents the only means by which human progress can be accomplished. It annoys people who have lazy minds, because thinking means mental effort. Practically all the accidents in the world are caused because people don’t think. Thou sands fail in life simply because they don’t think. Others give great inventions to the world because they do think.—The Pick-Up.