The Argosy, Vol. 90 No. 1 — page 192: what you’re looking at

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

186 sad smile passed over her face as she turned and for a second looked at Chase. Turning to Muriel she handed her the telegram. “It’s from Mr. Williams,” she said. “I must leave to-morrow. Rehearsals begin.” “T’m_ sorry,” Muriel answered. “Is there no way for you to stay, Anne?” The young actress shook her head, and again looked at Chase. He was leaning against a big pillar of the veranda, smoking a cigarette, with his head thrown back and his eyes staring up into the air. It was almost nine o’clock that night when Anne, tiring of the activity indoors, started alone for a stroll in the Italian gar- dens. It was the middle of September, but the nights, while cool, still retained a lin- gering breath of the balmy air of summer- time. She wanted to be alone for a while. The following day would see her back in the city with its Times Square and Broadway atmosphere, all of which she had come to detest. 7 It had been so different, she reflected, here at Townsend Manor. No stage, no managers, no actors, nothing associated with the theater but herself. Then she thought of Chase. She had thought of him a great deal since the pre- vious day. The aroma of a cigarette was wafted through the air. Then making a turn in the walk she saw a man in evening clothes sitting on a marble bench. As he raised his head she recognized him. It was Chase. For a second she stopped, her heart palpitating. Suddenly he turned and saw her. “Don’t stop,” he called. ‘‘ Come and help me count these stars.” Slowly she walked toward him, and as he rose she sat down on the bench. Chase reseated himself, tossing away his cigarette. For a second neither spoke. “You're going away to-morrow,” he finally remarked. ‘In the morning,” she answered. ‘“‘ Back to the stage. Do you know I’m beginning to hate it?” “Your profession?” the man _ asked, mildly surprised. THE ARGOSY. ‘“My profession,” she repeated. “I don’t know why I tell you, but it seems good to tell some one,” she hurriedly went on with a little catch in her voice. ‘ Per- haps I shall never be able to act again.” “Why?” he asked, quite interested. “T don’t just know. I suppose it’s be- cause I detest the stage.” ‘“Detest it!” His tone showed his amazement. She shook her head. “It’s hard to say such a thing, I sup- pose, but it has made me so unhappy that —that I hate it and everything with it; actors and—”’ She suddenly stopped, realizing that she was becoming somewhat overemphatic. Slowly she turned her head and looked at the man by her side. He was gazing ahead, apparently in- terested in a fountain twenty feet away, which was playing a spray of water that looked like silver threads in the moonlight. “You have some very decided views of life,” he finally remarked, “for such 2 young girl.” She did not answer, and turning he saw that she had buried her head on an arm which she rested on the back of the bench they occupied. She looked dejected in that position; a pathetic figure whose distress drew his sympathy. “Anne,” he said, placing a hand gently on her shoulder, “ you must_not feel this way. Why, all the plays and actors in the world are not worth your little finger. So why worry?” Slowly she raised her eyes and looked at him. It was the first time he had called her Anne. This man whom she had known little more than a day seemed to understand. It was the sympathy she had been craving for. And as she saw the soft, yearning expres- sion in his eyes, she bent her head a little nearer to him, and the next second it slipped on his shoulder. “Anne,” he murmured; then all was quiet. And for a long time they sat there in the moonlight, until he finally spoke: oO comicbool< CO