Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

540 flaming flowers. On one side the studio stood, a single story building with high, glassed roof. A woman hurried toward them along the graveled path, a motherly person of sixty- odd, gray-haired, capable, and kindly. Har- mon was introduced, was appraised with one swift glance and made to feel immedi- ately at home. His first remark, address- ing her as “ Miss Tremanner ” was quickly interrupted. “Aunt Maud, young man. If I’m old enough to be Hereward’s aunt, I’m old enough to be yours. And don’t think for a minute I’m going to ‘ Mister Harmon’ you either. I suppose I may call you by your first name without being suspected of making up to you. Though, goodness knows, with that curly hair I might have been tempted thirty years ago. What’s his first name, Harry?” “ Dick,” Harmon grinned with a red face. ‘Now, that’s settled,” she went on brightly. “ Dear me, you boys must be as hungry as bears. Now, where can Denise have got to? Do you see her, Harry?” If Harry did not, Harmon did, and it wasn’t a heavy-footed Belgian peasant he saw either. He.saw a girl of seventeen, a straight, slim figure in severe black that couldn’t dim the blaze of red-gold in her hair, nor the scarlet in her full-budding lips, nor the soft and liquid gray of her shaded eyes. It was a black frock unrelieved by any touch of color, except for the silver buckles that twinkled on her shoes, but it threw into startling relief the whiteness of her hands and throat. Harmon realized how becoming a color black can be and also realized he was star- ing a shade too intently. He heard Tremanner murmur an intro- duction and bowed. “Mile. Denise Lorollaise,” the English- man concluded. The gray, darkly-fringed eyes looked gravely at Harmon, looked down at the tip of a tiny, silver-buckled shoe, and looked shyly at Harmon again as she extended her hand—a look of frank and innocent curiosity concerning the dom- inant sex that bespoke an old-fashioned ed- ucation far from the gadding crowd. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ‘““ Denise has also a title, or at least her uncle had,” Tremanner added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “and I understand Americans are always intrigued by that sort of thing, eh, Dick?” ‘He is always so gay,” she smiled, using a careful, book-taught English. ‘ Always he makes fun, makes people laugh and be happy. But it is absurd that which he says, with my lit-tle estate blown with shells, and the title of my uncle does not descend.” ‘T’ll descend on Harry, presently,” sug- gested Aunt Maud grimly, “if he keeps you and Dick waiting much longer for din- ner with his nonsense. I'll have a bone to pick with him later, Denise, anyway. His own uncle was here yesterday again with an offer of a commission in a Yorkshire regiment that’s forming. He was quite up- set about Harry’s staying in the ranks.” ‘“ Now, aunty,” Tremanner protested, of- fering his arm, “ we went all over that. Id rather do my bit where I am for awhile, I'd miss half the color of it and all the ro- mance.” Dinner was served by a neat maid, a younger edition of the elderly woman who had opened the door, and it was an excel- lent meal for a man just freed from Cam- berham: barracks cooking. But it was a total loss as far as Harmon was concerned. To properly appreciate food a man should pay some attention to, and look occasion- ally at his plate, and Harmon spent most of his time looking at Denise, which was much more, satisfying. With her usual energy and with a con- siderable display of tact, Aunt Maud grad- ually brought him to talk about himself and the trip over on the horse-laden Barbarossa. Presently Harmon was telling the story of the trip right from the start, and he told it surprisingly well—which was, after all, not so surprising with a piled treasure of red- gold hair glowing in the candle-light across the table and shadowed eyes darker and more luminous now, hanging on every word and lighting up with a quick smile at every mention of Bob Tuesday. “So droll,” she breathed, “that large man. So like the M7. Ouixote one reads of in school.” : “We must have him out here,” Aunt (0) books AMIE GO!