THE VERY TIRED GIRL.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2092, 18 January 1908, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE VERY TIRED GIRL.

By Eleanor Hallowell Abbott (winner of tho lOOOdol. Prize given by “Collier’s Weekly.”) ■— On. one of those wet. warm, slushy February nights when the vapid air Bags like sodden wool an your lungs, and your bore through vour flesh, and your leaden feet sown strung directly from the roots of your eyos, three girls stampeded their way through the jostling, peevish street > with no other object in IleavV ell or Earth except just to get— HOME, HOME, HOME. It was supper time, too, somewhere Between G and 7, the caved-in. hour of tho day when tho ruddy ghost of Other People’s dinners flaunts itself rather grossly in the pallid nostrils of Her Who Lives bv tho Choling-Dish. •’ One of the girls was a Medical Massense, trained brain and brawn in tho German Hospitals. One was a Pub- . Scluh>l Teacher with a tickle of chalk-dust in her lungs. One was aCartoon Artist with a heart like clntfon and a wit as accidentally mnliei-oub-SjS-tbe^jab of a pin in a flirt’s v x belt. All three of them were silly with * fatigue. The writhing city cavorted

before them like a sick clown. A lame

cab horse went strutting like a me- -*■ chained toy. Crape on a door would have plunged them into hysterics.

Were you ever as tired as that? Jt was, in shore, the kind of night that rips out every one according to his stitch. Rhodi'i llanlan the .Masseuse was ostentatiously sewed with double thread and back-stitched at that. Even the little Teacher Ruth MacLnurin had a physique that was

, embroidered if not darned across its ravelled places. But Noreen Gaudette, the Cartoon Drawer, with her spangled brain, and her tissue-paper body, was merely basted together with a single silken thread. It was the knowledge of being only basted that gave Noreen the droll, puckered terrof'lai her eyes whenever Life tug- . ged at her with any specially inordinate strain. Yet it -was Doreen who was popularly supposed to be built with an electric battery instead of a heart. The boarding-houso that welcomed the three was rather tall for beauty, narrow-shouldered, flat-chested, hunched together in tho block liko a prudish, dour old spinster overcrowded in a street car.,,. To call suci a house “Home” was like callin'; such a spinster “Mother.” But th< threo girls called it “Home” and ra ther liked tho saucy taste of th< word in their mouths. . '

Across the threshold in a final spur: of energy the jaded girls pushed witl tho joyous realisation that there wert now only five flights of stairs between themselves and their own attic studio. . On tho first floor the usual dreary vision greeted them of a hall. table strewn with stale letters—most evidently bills, which no one seemed ir a hurry to" appropriate. It was twenty-two stumbling, bun-dle-dropping steps to the next floor, where the strictly Bachelor Quar- «- ters with half-swung doors emitted a pleasant gritty sound of masculine , -.voices, a sumptuous cloud of cigarette smoke which led the way frowardly up twenty-two more toil ing steps to the Old-Maid’s Floor - buffeted itself naughtily against the sternly shut doors, and then mounted -triumphantly like sweet incense to the Romance Floor, where with door alluringly open the Much-Loved Girl and her Mother were frankly and ingenuously preparing for the Mouday-Night-Lover’s visit. yjgion of the Much-Loved Gir smote like a brutal flashlight upoi the three girls in the hall. Out of curl, out of breath, jaded of face, bedraggled of clothes, thej stopped abruptly and stared into the vista.

Before their fretted, eyes the rooir. stretched fresh and clean as a newly - ‘ returned laundry package. The greer rugs lay like velvet grass across the floor. The chintz-covered furniture crisped like the crust of a cake, racing the gilt-bound mirror, the MuchLoved Girl sat joyously in all her lin-gerie-waisted, lace-paper freshness while her Mother hovered over her tr give one last maternal touqli to a pai ticularly rampageous blond curl. The Much-Loved Girl was a cor dial person. Her liquid, mirrorec reflection nodded gaily out into tin hall. There was no fatigue in tin sparkling face. There was no rain or fog. Tliero was no street-corne. insult? There was no harried stres.of wherewithal. There was jus > Youth, and Girl, and Cherishing. Sho made-- tlio Masseuse and tin little School Teacher think of a pah pink rose in a cut-glass vase. But she mado Noreen Gaudotto feel liki • a vegetable in a boiled dinner. ’ With one despairing gasp—halt chuckle ami half-sob—the three giH . pulled themselves together and dash _>d on up the last flight of stairs to ~ the Trunk Boom Floor, and their own attic studio, where bumping through the darkness they turned a sulky stream of light upon a room more tired-looking than themselves, and then, with almost fierce abandon, collapsed into the nearest restingplaces that they could reach. • It was a long time before any one spoke. Between the treacherous breeze ol the open window and a withering blast of furnace beat the wiltetl’inudin curtain swayed back and foith uitr. languid rhythm. Across the damp night air camo faintly tlio yearning, lovely smell of violets, and the faroff, mournful whino of a sick hand-

organ. On tlio black fur hearth rug Rhoda, the red-haired, lay prostrated like a broken tiger lily with her long, lithe hands clutched desperately at her temples. . . “I am so tired,” sho said. lam s 0 tired that I can actually feel my

h Ruth, the little Public School leather laughed derisively from the pi.lowed couch where she rtrugglci mwith her su^ng^b 3ar and the pmchy buckles of nothing,” She asserted wanly “I am so tired that I wo. - ... . i, u ild mo a pink-wadded silk LtsJ the shape of a slipper, . , I could mugglo down ... tl,„ tofwd go to Siw f " r"""z morning - the ear ly mornings between now and the Judgment Day ot any sentimental person cam cry at night, but when you begm

“fixing that curl? Think of having a Mother!”

Then Norocn Gamlet to opened her great grey eyes and grinned diabolically. Sho had a funny little manner of cartooning her emotions. “Think of having a Mother?” she scoffed. “What nonsense!— THINK OB’ HAVING A C-U-P.-L!

“You talk liko Sunday Paper debutantes,” she drawled. “You don’t know anything about being tired. Why, I am so tired—l am so tired—that 1 wish—l wish that tho first man who over proposed to mo would come back and nsk me—AGAIN I”

It -was then that tlie Landlady, knocking at tho door, presented a card, “Mr Earnest T. Dcxtwood,” for Miss Gaudotte, and tho innocentlooking conversation exploded suddenly liko a short-fused firecracker.

Rhoda in an instant was sitting holt upright with her arms around her knees rocking to and fro in convulsive delight. Ruth much more thoughtfully jumped for Noreon’s bureau drawer. Rut Noreen herself,, after one long, hyphenated* “Oh. my H-E-A-V-E-N-S!” threw off her damp wrinkled coat, stalked over to tho open window, and knelt down quiveringly where she could smother her blazing faeo in tho inconsequent darkness.

For miles and miles the teasing lights of Other Women’s homes stretched out before her. From tho win-dow-sill below her rose the persistentpurple smell of violets, find tho cooing, gauzy laughter of tho MuchLoved Girl. Fatigue was in the damp air, surely, but Spring was also there, and Louesomeness, and, worst of all, that desolating sense of patient, dying snow wasting away before one’s eves liko Life itself.

When Noreen turned again to her friends her eyelids drooped defiantly across her eyes. Her lips were liko a scarlet petal under tho bite of her teeth. Tliero in tho jetty black and scathing white of her dress she loomed up suddenly liko ono of her own best drawings—pulseless ink and stale white paper vitalized all in an instant by some miraculous emotional power, A living Cartoon of “FATIGUE” she istood there—“FATIGUE,” as she liorsolf would have drawn it—no flaccid failuro of wilted hone and sagging flesh, but VERVE, VERVE, VERVE—the taut Brain’s pitiless rally of tho Body that cannot afford to rest—tho verve of Factory Lights blazing overtime, tho verve of the Runner who drops at his goal. “All the time I am gone,” she grinned, “pray over and over, ‘Lead Noreen not into temptation.’ ” Her voice broke suddenly into wistful laughter: “Why to meet again a man who used to love you—it’s like offer-store-credit to a Pauper.” Then 6he slammed the door behind her and started downstairs for the bleak, plush pallor, with a chaotic sense of absurdity and 1 bravado. < - But when she reached the middle of the Bachelor Stairway and looked down casually and spied her clumsy arctics butting out from her wetedged skirt all her nervousness focused instantly in her shaking knees, and she collapsed abruptly on the friendly dark stair and, clutching hold of the banister, began to whimper.

In the midst of her stifled tears a door banged hard above her, the floor creaked under a sturdy step, and the tall, narrow form of the Economist silhouetted itself against the feeble light of the upper lauding. *

One step down he came into the darkness—two i steps, three steps, four, until at last, in choking, miserable embarrassment, Noreen cried out hysterically: “Don’t steo on me—l’m crying 1”

With a gasp of astonishment the young man struck a sputtering match and bent down waving it before him. “Why, it’s you, Miss Gaudette,” he exclaimed with relief. “What’s the matter ? Are you ill ? What are you crying about?” and he dropped down beside her and commenced to fan her frantically with his hat. ■ “What are you crying about?” ho persisted helplessly, drugged, manlike, by tho s me embarrassment that mounted like wino to tho women’s

brain. Noreen beg m to laugh snullingly. “I’m not crying about anything special,” she acknowledged. “I’m just crying. I’m crying partly because I’m tii id—and partly because I’ve got my < vershoes on—but mostly”—her voic : began 1o catch again —“but most! —because there’s a man waiting o see mo in the parlor.” Tlio Politics . Economist shifted uneasily in his r in coat and stared into Noreeu’s eyes ‘‘Great He mis’” ho stammered. “Do you alw: ,s cry when men come to see you? is that why you never invited me ti. call?” Noreen sho; k her head.- “I never have men con > to soo me,” she answered quite simply.. “I go to see them. I study in tlieir studios. I work oii tiled- newspapers. I caricature their enemies. Oh, it isn’t men that I’m afraid of,” she added blithely, “but this is something paiv ticular. This is something really very funny. Did you ever make a wish that something perfectly preposterous wou.’d happen?” “Oh, yes,” said the Poliaical Economist reassuringly. “This very day I said 1 wished my stenographer would swallow the telephone.’’ “But she didn’t swallow it, did she?” persisted Noreen ly“l said that I wished some one would swallow the telephone and sho did swallow it! Then her .face in the dusky light flared piteously with harlequined emotions. Her eyes blazed bright with toy excitement. Her lips curved impishly with exaggerated drollery. But when for a second her head dropped back against the banister be: jaded small face looked for all the world like a death-mask of a jester. The Political Economist’s heart crinkled uncomfortably within him. “Why, you poor little girl, be said. “I didn’t know that women got as tired as that. Let me takeoff your overshoes. ’ Noreen stood up like a well-train-ed pony and shed her overshoes, The man’s voice grew peremptory. “Your skirt is sopping wet. Are you crazy? Didn’t have time to get into dry things? Nonsense! Have you bad any supper?. What? i o ai a minute.” . , In an instant be was flying up the stairs, and when lie came back there was a big glass of cool milk m bis drank in ravenously and 1 r «-with abrupt,

When she reached the ground floor the Political Economist loaned over the banisters and shouted in a piercing wills pci .

“I’ll leave your overshoes outsido my door where you can got them on your way up later.” Then ho laugheil teasingl.v and added: "I—hope—you’ll—have—a—good—time.” And Noreoii, cleaving lor one last second to tho outer edge of tho banisters, smiled up at him, <o straininglv up, that tier face, to the man above her. looked liko a little flat white plate with a crimson-lipped rose wilting on it.

Then she disappeared into the pnr-

With equal abruptness the Political Economist changed his mind about going out, and wont back instead to his own room and plunged himself down in his chair, and smoked and thought, until his friend, the Poet at the big writing-desk, slapped down his manuscript and stared at. him inquisitively.

“Lord Almighty I wish I could draw!” said tho Political Economist. It was not so much an exclamation as a reverent entreaty. His eyes narrowed sketchily across tho vision that haunted him. “11 I could draw, ho persisted, “I’d make a picture that would hit tho world like a knuckled fist straight between its selfish old eyes. And I’d call that picture ‘Talent.’ I’d make ail ocean chopping white and squally, with black clouds scudding liko fury across tho sky, and no land in sight except rocks. Ami I’d fill the ocean full of sharks and things-not showing too much, you- know, but just an occasional shimmer of fins through tho foam. And I’d mako a sailboat scooting along, tipped ’way over on her side toward you, with just a slip of an eager-faced girl >u it- And * d wedge her in there, wind-blown, sprav-daslied, loot and back braced to the death, with the tiller in ono hand and the sheet- in tho other, and wea-ther-almighty roaring all around her. And I’d make the riskiest little leak in tho bottom of that boat rammed desperately with a box of chocolates, and a bunch of violets, and a laigo paper compliment in a man’s handwriting reading: ’Oh, how clever you are.’ And I’d have that girl’s face haggard with hunger, starved for sleep, tense with fear, ravished with excitement. But- I’d have her chiu up, anil her eyes open, and tho tiniest tilt of a quizzical smile hounding you. like mad across the snug, gilt frame. Maybe, too, I’d havo a woman’s magazine blowing around tolling in chaste language how to keep the hair ‘smooth’ and tho hands ‘velvety,’ and admonishing girls above all tilings not to bo eaten by sharks! Good Heavens, man!” ho finished disjointedly, “a girl doesn’t ’know how to sail a boat anyway!” “What are you talking about?” moaned the Poet. The Political Economist began to knock tho ashes furiously out of his pipe. ' “What am I talking about?” ho cried; “I’m talking about girls. I’ve always said that I’d gladly fall in love if I could only decide what sort of girl I wanted to fall in love with Well, I’ve decided 1” “The Poet’s face furrowed. “Is it the Much-Loved Girl?” he st-ammer-ed.

The Political Economist’s smouldering temper began to blaze. “No, it isn’t,” ejaculated the Political Economist. “The Much-Lo-vetl Girl is a sweet enough, airy, fairy sort of girl, but I’m not going to fall in love with just a protty valentine.”

‘Going to try a ‘Comic’?” the Poet suggested pleasantly. The Political Economist ignored the impertinence. “I am reasonably well off,” he continued meditatively, “and I’m reasonably good-looking, and I’ve contributed eleven articles on Hen and Women’ to modern economic literature, but it’s dawned on mo all of a sudden that in spite of all my beauteous theories regarding Life in General, I am just one big Shirk when it comes to Life in Paiticulai. The Poet put down his pen and pushed asido his bottle of liming fluid, and began to take notice. “Whom are you going to fall m love with?” be demanded. Tlio Political Economist sank back into his chair. , “I don’t quite know,” he added simply, “but she’s going to be some tired girl. Whatever else she may or may not be, she’s got to bo a tired girl.” “A tired girl?” scoffed the Poet. “That’s no kind of a girl to marry. Choose somebody who’s all pink and white freshness. That’s the kind of a girl to make a man happy.” The Political Economist smiled a bit viciously behind his cigar. “Half an hour ago,” lie affirmed, “I was a beast just like you. Good Heavens! Man,” lie cried out suddenly, “did you ever see a girl cry ? Cry? I moan. Not because her manicure scissors jabbed her thumb, but because her great, strong, tyrant, sexless brain had goaded her poor little woman-body to the very cruellest, last vestige of its strength and spirit. Did you ever see a girl like that Miss Gaudetto upstairs—slio a tlio Artist, you know, who did cartoons last year that played the devil itself with ‘Congress Assembled did you ever see a girl like that just plain thrown down, tripped m her tracks, sobbing like a hurt, tired child? Your pink and white Pettiness can cry like a rampant tragedyqueen all she wants to over a misfitted collar, but mv band is going here and now to the big-brained girl who cries li'ko a- child. “In short,” interrupted the Poet, “you are going to help—Miss Gaudette sail her boat ? . “Y-o-s,” said the Political Economist. „ , “And so.” mocked the I oet, you are "oing to jump aboard and steer the young lady adroitly to some port of your own choosing?” The older man’s jaws tightened ominously. “No, by the Lord Almighty, that’s just wliat I am not going to do I” be promised. “I’m going to help her sail to the Port of her own choosing.” . The Poet began to rummage m his mind for adequate arguments. “Oh. allegorically.” be conceded, “vour scheme is utterly charming, but from any material, matrimonial point of view I should want to remind mvself pretty hard that overwrought brains do not focus very easily on domestic interests, nor do arms which have tugged as you say at ‘sheets’ and ‘tillers’ curve very dimplingly around youngsters shoulders.” > The Political Economist blew seven •mighty smoke-puffs from bis pipe.

I deserve to pay for not having arrived earlier on the scene!” ho said quietly. ' .... Tho Poet- began to chuckle. “You certainly aro hard hit,” .lie scoffod. “Political Economy Go no to rimo with Hominy 1

It’s an oxquisito schomol” “It’s a rotten rime,” attested tho Political Economist, and strodo over to the mantelpiece, where ho began to hunt for a long piece of twine. “Miss Gaudotte,” ho continued, “is downstairs in the parlor now entertaining n caflor —some resurrected beau, I boliovo. Anyway, she left her overshoes outside my door to get whon she comes up again, and I’m going to tie one'end of this string to them and tho ot-hor end to my wrist ,so that when sho picks up her shoes a few hours later it will wake me from my nap a-ml 1 can make one grand rush for the hall and —” “Propose thou and there?” quizzed tho Poet.

“No, not exactly. But I’m going to nslc her if she’ll lot mo fall in lovo with her.”

Tho Poet sniffed palpably and left

the room. But the Political Economist lay back in his chair and went to sleep with a great, pleasant- expectancy in his heart. Whoa ho woke at last with a sharp, tugging pain at his wrist the room was utterly daik, a.ml the little French clock had stopped aghast and clasped its hands at eleven. For a second lie rubbed his eyes in perplexity. Then ho jumped., to his feet, fumbled across the room and opened tho door to find Noreen staring with astonishment at tho tied overshoes. “Oh, I want to speak to you, no began. Then his eyes focussed in amazement on n perfectly lingo bunm-: o r violets which Norocti was clasping desperately in her arms. “Good Heavens 1” ho cried. Is anybody dead?” _ But Noreen held tho violets up live a bulwark and commenced to laugh across them. _ , “He did propose,” she said, 'end I accepted him! Does it look as though I had chosen to be engaged with violets instead of a ring?” she suggested blithely. “It’s only that I askeil him if ho would bo apt to send mo violets, and when .ho said: ‘Acs, every week,’ I just asked if 1 pleaso couldn’t have them all at once. There must bo a billion dollars’ worth hero. I’m going to havo a tea-party tomorrow and invito the Much-Loved Girl.” The conscious, childish malice of her words twisted her lips into an elfish smile. “It’s Mr Earnest Dextvvood,” she rattled on: “Earnest Dcxtwood, tho Coffeo Merchant. Ho s a widower now—with three children. Do—you—think—that—l—'will-make a—good—stepmother ?” The vjolets began to quiver against her breast, but her chin went higher and higher in rank defiance of tho perplexing something which elio saw in tho Political Economist’s narrowing eyes. She began to quote with playful recklessness Byron’s pert parody : “There is a tido in tho affairs of women Which taken at its flood leads—God Knows Where.”

But when the Political Economist did not answer’ her, but only stared with brooding, troubled eyes, sho caught her breath with a sudden terrifying illumination. “Ounclil” sho said. “O-u-c-h!” and wilted instantly like a frost-bitten rose under heat. All tho bravado, all. the .stamina, all tho glint of hex - , vanished utterly. ‘•'Mr Political Economist,” sho stammered, ‘‘life—is—too —hard ior me. I am not Rhoda Hanlan with her sturdy German peasant stock. I am not Ruth MacLaurfn with her Scotch-plaited New Euglandism. Nationality doesn’t count with me. My father was a Violinist. My mother was an actress. In order to marry, my father swapped his music for discordant factory noises) and my mother shirked a dozen successful roles to give one life-long, very poor imitation of Happiness. My father died of too much to drink. My mother died of too little to eat. And I was bred, I guess, of very bitter lovo, of conscious sacrifice —of thwarted genius—of defeated vanity. Life—is too—hard —for—me —alone. I cannot finance it. I cannot safeguard it. lam not seaworthy! You might bo willing to risk your own eelfeonsciousness, but when tho dead begin to como back and’ clamor in you—when you laugh unexpectedly with your father’s " restivo voice—when you quicken unexplainably to the lure of gift and tinsel—” A whimper of pain went scudding across her face, and she put back her head aiid grinned—“ You can- keep my overshoes ‘for a souvenir,” sho finished .abruptly; “Pm not allowed any more to go out'«when it storms!” iTien sho turned like a flash and ran swiftly uptho stairs. When he heard tho door slam hard behind her, the • Political Economist fumbled his way back through the darkened room to his Morris chair, and throw himself down again. Earnest Dextwood? Ho know him well. A prosperous, kindly, yet domestically tyrannical man, bright in tho office, stupid at home. Earnest Dextwood ! So much less of a girl would havo done for him.

A widower with three children? Tlio eager, unspent emotionalism of Noreen’s face flaunted itself across his smoky vision. All that hunger for life, for love, for beauty, for sympathy, to bo blunted once for all in a stale, misfitting, ready-made home? A widower with three children ! God in Heaven, was she as tired as that!

It was a whole long week before bo saw Noreen again. When lie met her at last she had just come in from automobiliiig, all rosv-faced and out of breath, with her thin little face peering almost piumply from its heavy swatliings of light-blue veiling, and her slender figure deeply wraplied in a wondrous covert coat. Rhoda Haitian and Rutli MaeLaurin were close behind her, much more prosaically garnished in golf capes and brown-colored mufflers. r J lie Political Economist stood by on the stairs to let them pass, and Noreen looked back at him and called out gaily; ••It’s lot of fun to bo engaged. We’re all enjoying it very much. It’s bully!”

The next time lie saw her she was on her way downstairs to the parlor, in a long-tailed, soft, black evening gown that bothered her a bit about managing. Her dark hair was piled up high' on her head, and she bad the same mischievous, amateur-theatrical charm that the. blue chiffon veil and covert coat had given her.

Quito frankly sho demanded tho Political Economist’s appreciation of her -appearance.

“Just seo how nice 1 can look when I -really TRY?” sho challenged him, “hut it took mo all day to do it, and my work went to smash—and my dress cost seventy dollars,” sho finished wryly.

But tho Political Economist was surly about his compliment. “No, I like you better in your little business suit,” be attested gruffly. And ho lied, and ho know that ho lied, for never before bad lie seen tho -shrewd piquancy of her eyes so utterly swamped by just the wild, sweet lure of girlhood. Some time in May, however, when the shop windows were gay with women’s luxuries, he caught a hurried glimpse of her faeo gazing rather tragically at a splurge of lilac-trimmed hats.

Later in the month ho passed her ill the Park, cuddled up on a bench, with her shabby business suit scrunched tight around her, her'elbows on her knees, her chin burrowed in her hands, and her fiercely narrowed eyes quaffing like some outlawed tiling at the lusty new green grass, tho splashing fountain, the pinky flush of flowering quince. But when lie stopped to speak to her she jumped up quickly and pleaded tho haste of an errand. It was two weeks later in scorching Juno that the biggest warehouses on the river caught fire in tho early part of the evening. Tho day had been as harsh as a shining, splintery plank. Tho night was like a, gray silk pillow. In blissful, soothing consciousness of perfect comfort every one in tho hoarding-house climbed up on the roof to watch the gorgeous, fearful conflagration across the city. Tho Landlady’s voice piped high and shrill discussing the value of insurance. Tho Old Maids scuttled together under their knitted shawls. The Much-Loved Girl sat amiably enthroned -among the bachelors with one man’s coat across lier shoulders, another man’s cap on her yellow head, and two deliciously timid hands clutched at the coat-sleeves of "the two men nearest her. Whenever she bent her head she trailed the fluff of her hair across tho enraptured eyelids of the Poet.

Only Noreen Gaudotte was missing. “Whore is. Miss Gaudette ?” probed he Political Economist.

The .Masseuse answered vehemently: “Why, Noreon’s getting ready to go to tho fire. Her paper sent for her just as we came up. There’s an awful row on, you know, about- the inefficiency of the Fire Department, and there’s no other person in all tlie city who can make people look as silly as Noreen can. If this thing appeals to her to-night, and she gets good and mad enough, anil keeps her nerve, there’ll be tho biggest overhauling of the Fire Department that YOU ever saw! But I’m sorry it happened. It will be an all-night job, anil Noreen is almost dead enough as it is.” “An ‘all-night job’?” The MuchI.oved Girl gasped out her startled sense of propriety, and snuggled back against tlie shoulder of tho man who sat nearest to her. She was very genuinely sorry for any one who had -to be improper. Tho Political Economist, noting tlie incident in its entirety, turned abruptly on 'lii.t heel/Yli nTbed- down the tremulous ladder to the' Trunk Room floor and knocked peremptorily at Noreen’s door.

In reply to the answer which ho thought lie heard, ho turned the handle of tho door and entered. Tlie gas yet sizzled blatantly across tho room, anil a tiny blue flame toiled laboriously in a cooking lamp beneath a pot of water. The loom was reeking strong with tho smell of coffee, the rank brew that wafted him back in nervous terror to his college day;--and tlie ghastly eve of his final examinations. A coat, a. hat, a mousegray sweater, a sketch-book, -and a buncli of pencils were thrown together on the edge of the divan. Crouched on the floor with head and shoulders prostrate across her easel chair anil thin hands straining at tlie woodwork was Noreen Gaudette. The startled face that lifted to his "as haggard with the energy of a year rallied to tho needs of an hour.

“I thought you told me to como in,” said the Political Economist. “I camo down to go to the fire with you,”

Noreen was on her feet in an instant, hurrying into her flat and coat, and quaffing greedily at tho reeking coffeo. “You ought to havo sonicono to look after you,” persisted the man. ‘‘Where’s Mr. Dextwood ? ” Noreon stood still in the,middle of the floor and stared at him. /“Why, J’vo my engagement,” sho exclaimed,’ trying hard to speak tamely and reserve every possible fraction of her artificial energy.

“Oh, yes,” sho smiled wanly, “I couldn’t afford to be engaged! I couldn’t afford the time. I couldn t afford the money. I couldn’t afford tlio. mental distraction. I’m working again now, but it’s horribly hard to get back into, the mood. My drawing has all gone to smash. But I’ll got the hang of it again pretty soon.” “You look in mighty poor shape to work to-night,” said the Political Economist. “What makes you go?” “What makes mo go?” cried Noreen, with an extravagant burst of vehomcnce. “Wliat makes mo go?— Why, if I make good to-night on those Fire-Department Pictures J get a Hundred Dollars, as well as tile assurance of all the Republican cartooning for tile next city election. It’s worth a lot of money to me!” “Enough to kill yourself for?” probed the Man. Noreon’s mouth began to .twist. “Yes—if you still owe for your automobile coat, and your black evening gown, and your room rent and a few other trifles of that sort. But come on, if you’ll promise not to talk to mo'till it’s all over.” Like a pair of youngsters they scurried down the stairs, jumped into tlie waiting cab, and galloped off toward tlio river, edge of the city. True to bis promise, the Political Economist did not speak to her, but he certainly had not promised to keep, his eyes shut as well as his mouth. From the very first she sat forward on the seat where the passing streetlights blazed upon lier unconscious face. The. Man, the c-ab, love-mak-ing. debt-paving, all were forgotten in her desperate effort to keep keyed up to the working point. Her brain was hurriedly sketching in her backgrounds. Her suddenly narrowed eves foretold the tingling pride in some particular imagining. ' The flashing twist of her smile predicted the touch of malice that was to make her

Tho finish of tho threo-milo drivo found her jubilant, prescient, pulsing with power. Tho glow from the flames lit it]) the cab like a room. Tho engine belts clanged around (hem. Sparks glittered. Steam hissed. Wlion the cabman's liorso refused to scorch his noso any nearer tho conflagration, Noreon turned to the Political Economist with somo embarrassment. “If you ronfly want lo help mo,” she pleaded, “you’ll stay hero in tho cab. and wait for mo.”

Then, before tho Political Economist could offer his angry protest, sho bail opened tho door, jumped from tho step, and disappeared into tho surging, rowdy throng of spectators. A tedious hour later tho cab floor opened abruptly, and Noreon reappeared.

Her hat was slouched down over her heat-scorched oyes. Her shoulders wore limp. Her face was dull, dumb, gray, liko a Japanese lanternrobbed of its candle; Bluntly sho thrust her -sketch-book into liis bands and throw herself down on tho seat besido him.

“Oh, take me homo,” sho hogged. “Oh, take me homo QUICK, It’s no use,” sho added with a shrug, “I’ve seen tho wliolo performance. I’ve been everywhere—under tho ropes—up on the roofs—out on tho waterfront. The Firo Department Mon are not ‘inefficient.’ Thoy’ro simply BULLY! AND I MAKE NO CARICATURES OF HEROES!”

Tho lurch of the cab wheel against a kerbstone jerked a faint smile into her faeo.” “Isn’t it horrid,” sho quizzed, “to have a Talent and a Living that depend altogether upon your GETTING MAD?” Then her eyes flooded with worry. “What SHALL I do?” “You’ll marry me,” said tho Political Economist. “Oh, no!” gasped Noreen. “I shall never, never marry any ono! I told-you that 1 couldn’t afford to bo engaged. it takes too much time, and besides,” her color flamed piteously, “I didn’t like being engaged.” “I didn’t ask you to be engaged,” persisted tho Political Economist. “I didn’t ask you to servo any underpaid, ill-fed, half-hearted apprenticeship to Happiness. 1 asked you to. ho married.” “Oh, no!” sighed Noreen. “I shall never marry any one.” The Political Economist Bogan to laugh. “Going to bo an Old Maid,” lie teased. The high lights flamed into Noreen’s eyes. Sho braced herself into the corner of the carriage and fairly hurled her defianco at him. Indomitable purpose raged in her heart, unutterable pathos drooped around her lips. Every atom of blood in her body was working instantly in hotbrain. No single drop of it loafed in her cheeks under the flimsy guise of embarrassment.

“I am not an ‘old maid!’ I am not* I am not! I am not! No one who creates anything is an ‘old maid’ 1”

The passion of her mood broke suddenly into wilful laughter. She shook her head at him threateningly. “Don’t you ever dare to call mo an ‘old maid’ again—But I’ll tell you just what you can call me.—Women are supposed to be tho poetry of liio, aren’t they—the sonnet, the • lyric, tho limerick? Well—l am blank verso. That is the trouble with me. I simply do not rime.—That is all! “Will you marry me?” persisted the Political Economist.

Noreen shook her head. “No!” she repeated. “You don’t seem to undeistand. Marriage is not for me. I tell you that lam blank verse. lam talent, and I do not rime with love. I am talent- and I do not rime with man. There is no placer in Any life for you. You cannot come into my verso and rimo with me!” “Aren’t you a little bit exclusive, goaded tho Polotical Economist. ° Noreen nodded gravely. “Yes,” sho said, “I am brutally exclusive. But everybody isn’t. Lile is so easy for some women. Now/ the MucliLoved Girl is nothing in the world except ‘Miss.’ Sho rimes inevitably with almost anybody’s kiss.—l am not just ‘miss.’ —The Much-Loved Girl is nothing in the world except ‘girl.’—Sho rimes inevitably with ‘Curl.’ 1 am not just ‘girl.’ She is ‘coy’ and rimes with ‘boy.’ She is ‘simple’ and rimes with ‘dimple. I am nono of those things! I haven t tho lure of tho sonnet. I fc tho bait of tlie limerick. At tho very best I am ‘brain’ and rimo with ‘pain.’ And 1 wish I was dead! Tho Political Economist’s heart was pounding like a gong smothered m velvet. But lie. stooped over reiy quietly and -putted tho floor cushion under her feet and snuggled the mouse-grey sweater into » l» o'' ol roll behind her aching neck, then from his own remotest corner lie reached out casually and. rallied __lier limp, cold hand into tho firm, warm clasp of his vibrant lingers. “Of course, you never have rimed ” lie said. “How could you possibly have rimed when I am the m.ssing lines of your verso?” H.s clasp 'tightened. “Never mind about p»c r try to-night, dear, but to-morrow we’ll take your little incomplete lonesome verso and quicken it into a -love-song that will make the oldest angel in Heaven sit up and carol.