Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 7, 1928 — page 41: what you’re looking at

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

THE RESPECTABLE MANIACS, wanted to be sure of what was playing to-night. As she poked in the dark interior, Albert’s old photograph book fell out of an obscure pigeonhole. She picked it up, and also the program, which had fallen beside it, then crossed the room to the couch. In a moment she let the program fall on the floor, and opened the book. There was Albert at the age of six, an ugly little boy in overalls, standing on a tree stump, waving at the cam- era. On the next few pages of the black folder were pictures of his sister, his mother, his aunt, and his old school- mates. She could identify only a few. All that part of Albert’s life was al- most closed to her; all strange and somehow lifeless. He did not seem to have existed real- ly before she had met and married him. Later pictures of him, though—some of them including her beside him—had more vitality and reality. But he would never be handsome, she reflected, nor husky. She gazed for a moment at her own picture, and thought vaguely: “ What a lot of beauty going to waste!’ In the next instant she felt guilty, and told herself with prim modesty that she was not beautiful. Some of these pictures in the back of the album looked strange to her. She must have missed these pages before. One picture had a whole page to itself, and Viola stopped to look at the girl in that photo. She had light hair; Viola’s was dark, and brown. This girl looked a bit vampish. The tall shadow in the foreground was the shadow of the person who had taken the picture. It had been late in the day, evidently. Viola studied that shadow; there was something familiar about it. Yes —it was Albert. And the girl—what was she doing, looking at him like that, all smiles? Viola flipped over the next few 31 pages disinterestedly, and closed the book. As-she did so, the hall door opened. Albert was home. Viola tucked the al- bum under the couch pillow, and rose. She hoped he would not kiss her to- night. Lately he had been perfunctory in his greetings. Perhaps she had only supposed so, but a supposition, as far as a woman’s peace of mind went, was as bad as a fact. At all events, she had no inclination to hurry out to meet him. She heard the kitchen door creak, and knew that he was looking in there to see if she was at her cooking. As long as he got his supper, she consid- ered with a pout, he didn’t care about anything else. That was his first thought—food. Now he was probably disappointed because she was not toil- ing in that hot kitchen. She rose and went down the hall, her features hardening. “°Lo, Vi,” he greeted her in offhand fashion. Was he going to—was he—no, he was not. He did not kiss her. He was trying to be cheerful about something. “°Lo,—uh—Al,” she answered, and hastened to the gas range, where, with a sudden show of industry and much clatter of pots and dishes, she managed to cover up her tension. What was the matter with every- thing to-night? she wondered. Albert was in a strange mood, and so was she. All day long she had been like this— idling, musing, restless. Things had never been quite right since their re- turn from their summer out on Long Tsland. They had planned to move into a nicer section of Brooklyn on their re- turn, and instead they had been forced, because of the expense, to remain where they were, in a section where the suburban atmosphere was swiftly being annihilated by huge boxlike apartment buildings, stores, and an influx of un- tidy inhabitants. COPMICLOOKS (E©)