Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 4, 1925 — page 92: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

882 But I convoyed him courteous to the front door, kissed him good night, and finally dumped into the downy as happy as an engaged woman should be—with the rose playing perfume tunes on my pillow. IV. Come days that should of been wonder- ful. And they was, I guess, only— Dave would wink at waitresses. He’d do it whenever my eyes was on the Spik omelette or the chicken a Ja Merry- Jand. And I couldn’t say nothing to him about it. It would be like asking silly ques- tions at grand opera to bust into the beauty of our love. Yet it hurt me, gripping at the back of my throat with a scalding ache that even ice cream sodas couldn’t seem to cure. Would Romeo of winked at waitresses? Can you frame Juliet having to peruse col- umns on “ How to Keep a Man.” And in vaudeville, whenever Dave was Satisfied mv gaze was secure on the gink that balanced beautiiully atop the ladder, his eves would focus on the cutie that held it. I knew it as sure as though a dotted line had been drawed from him to her. And it hurt. But unless you are a woman, you can never know how it hurts. However, I didn’t say nothing. Dave loved me. I knew that. But I knew, too, though it come over me as gradual as springtime in Alaska, that it wasn’t no Love of the Ages—just the plain, common, everyday kind that settles you down into a plain, common, everyday wed- ded life. And one day the insidious idea inserted itself into my think tank—maybe there agin’t no other kind! I went and asked my married chum, Mamie O’Moody. Mame was in her kitchen, boiling clothes that had a queer, damp smell], while Thomas O’Moody, Jr., tried to chase steam mists with a porridge spoon. As I come in she dabbed hopelessly at a mess of hair that browsed all over her head like seaweed, attempted to erase an egg stain from Tom Junior’s manly bosom, and in other ways created the air of a happy and efficient young matron. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. I perched myself gingerly on the kitchen Stool and allowed the hopeful to explore my new permanent wave. Then: ‘“ Mame,” I burst out abrupt, “ is there such a thing as love?” She looked at me, startled, stopped in her stirring of the wet clothes, then re- sumed, smiling quiet. “Why, I guess so,” she answered calm. ‘“ But did you locate it, Mame—the Love of the Ages you used to dream about in them long days down to the store?” Her face was turned a little away from me, but I noticed her lips tremble like the wings of a wounded sparrow. “ Mavbe not—t/at,” she admitted con- templative. My voice was So tense it made her look at me. “Mame,” I persisted, “ was it like— Romeo and Juliet?” She tossed back her head and tittered, with Tom Junior cooing merry in chorus. “Romeo?” she chortled. ‘ That’s good! Say, the only balcony my poor, patient, to- bacco-chewing angel husband knows any- thing about is the one down to the local vaudeville house. And as for swearing by the moon, he’s sworn by everything but.” “Doesn't he love you, Mame?” Her eyes was sober. ‘“ He’s good to me.” ‘ Mame, I—I know this sounds silly, but does “e wink at—waitresses?”’ ‘““No more than other human men.” “ Don’t it make you feel bad?” “At first, but I got used to it. I don’t mind now. The thing that used to pain in my throat took an anesthetic, slept and died.” “Tt oughtn’t to die!” I declared vehe- ment. ‘The thing in there that hurts, Mame, is good for you and shouldn’t die. Something’s wrong when it’s killed.” “ That’s life, Tess.” “ Life! But vou didn’t map it out that way when you married Tom, did you?” ¥ cried passionate. ‘ You just painted him and you always—like a perfect picture, didn’t your” Mame nodded. ‘And when he does them little things, it’s just like dabbing dirt on that picture, Conn GIOok