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Show Do Not Be Lonely By Edna Miller SOFT lights, sweet music, and only eight o'clock in the evening. Such was the situation in which Mr. Paul Butler found himself on the night of January 16, 1940. The place was a city in the east. Mr. Butler was only thirty-six, good looking and tall. Unmarried? Yes. Balancing himself on the high cocktail stool, Mr. Butler surveyed the room reflected in the mirror before him. Restful it was and also different. That's why he had chosen this place, this so-called Starlite Lounge. Blobs of light caught his eyes as they cast water-like splotches on chromium and glass. Blue, blue, everywhere he looked was blue and silver. Everywhere but against the far wall of heaven-like blue where stood a bit of white. So startingly white that his eyes remained riveted on the object. It was a girl. Probably twenty years old. Auburn hair and a good figure. She looked lonely; she was lonely. Mr. Butler was lonely, too . . . He walked over to the young woman. She followed his advance. "Shall we dance?" "Yes, thank you." The next hour was spent in such a way. The music was soft, the lights were dim, and two people were swaying as one. With such an atmosphere, with such an unusual girl and lonely man attracted to each other, is it any wonder that Fate stepped in and decided to play her hand in this game ? The hour of nine-thirty struck in chime-like notes throughout the lounge. The girl, as if awakened from a dream, drew back and said, "I must go." Without a bit of effort on her part, she was released from the man's embrace and started for the door. Close behind was her escort Mr. Butler. "May I get your wrap?" "No thank you. I don't have one." He glanced at her sharply. Yes, she was decidedly too thin to be without an outer covering. How forlorn and frightened she looked in contrast to the blue-lit atmosphere. He glanced away, but could not help returning his glance at once, returning it to the tranquil countenance of this one girl. She was beautiful, too beautiful to be in a dancing place without an escort. What was her name? He hadn't even asked her that. How stupid she must think him. And now he was following her out, asking if he could drive her home. "I probably should introduce myself. I'm Paul Butler. I work with the Chronicle. I've been here only a few weeks and don't know many people." "I am Natalie Williams," she said. Then he took her arm and they went to his car. The clock on the dashboard said eleven forty-five. The stars overhead had been blotted out by great billowing clouds. Distant thunder roared across the eastern horizon and the radio played sweet music. The road was only a country lane. The car was a low touring car carrying two people who had forgotten time, weather, and music. He spoke of his affection as they rode. "I've gone with a good many girls, some of them over long periods and some for just a short time. But I couldn't find in any of the others what I have found in you. I've loved you more since I first saw you in the dance lounge than many men love in a lifetime." She was content to let him talk. They returned to town just when the bell was sounding for twelve o'clock mass. She leaned over and touched his arm. "May I please go to mass?" Before the great structure of stone and steel the low touring car halted. Before she alighted, she opened her purse. "Please go on. But before you go I want to ask you to deliver this to my mother. My address is on the envelope." She paused, looked at him, kissed him once, then silently left him looking after her in the storm-swept night. "Thank you. You are kind." Was that the wind or was it the voice of the girl? He turned, stared, and then shuddered. Just as the girl was going into the church, a flash of lightning illumined the place so that everything looked ethereal. The girl, standing dressed in flowing white, was the sole object. All else was blotted from view. Then came a crash of thunder and a gust of wind. Only the black night and the soft music of the radio were his companions now. Again he started the motor. Yes, there lay the envelope as she had left it on the seat beside him. Very thin lines, very fine paper. For no one but this lovely creature could have written anything but this. He lifted it, smelled. A thin, grey-like powder filtered off into the atmosphere, leaving behind it the scent of musk and lavender. A small country-like cottage greeted Mr. Butler as he drew up before the address designated on the envelope. The house reminded him of Natalie. Different and old-fashioned. He rapped on the door. No response. He rapped again and waited. Thunder and lightning overhead played a symphony with raindrops as their metronome. The door opened. Before him stood a woman of years. Old, but with grace and poise. She seemed not at all startled by her late caller. "I have a note for you from your daughter," he said. "I met her this evening and let her off at the church for midnight mass. If I may I would like to come in and talk to you for a few moments." Hesitatingly the women took the note. A look of incredulity came upon her face. She stared at the man, and then said shakily, "Yes, do come in. Do come in." The door closed upon them. She read the note, clutched at her bosom, and fell back in the chair. Her grief stricken eyes told him of some great sadness. "Come here," she said. "Come and sit beside me." He came, and at her command told her of the happenings of the evening. When he finished she shook her head and said, "It cannot be, it couldn't be. Natalie has been dead for over a month. She was killed in an automobile accident about this time. I remember so plainly how her escort came, just as you did tonight, telling me of her death." She gave him the paper. "Here, you read it." He took the scented paper and read. There was only one sentence. "Do not be lonely; I am with you." Rain splattered the road. The wind was sharp and keen, and everywhere was storm and unrest. The low touring car speeding along the steep wet road, careened, skidded, and then plunged forward into space. The crash was simultaneous with the crash of thunder, and the flash of lightning obscured everything except the black touring car, now twisted and broken. The rain pattered down, "Do not be lonely, do not be lonely ... Do not be lonely." page ten A Romance in Pink MICHAEL whistled while he dressed for the party. He was a lucky fellow to have been invited to such an exclusive affair. It was to be the Kersey's annual costume ball. Although Michael had been invited to this ball every year, he had never attended, except once while he was still in his teens when his mother had forced him to go; but it had been a terrible ordeal that he hoped would never be his lot again. Everyone who did go was so affected wearing monocles and saying, "Oh, my de-ah!" which bored Michael to tears. This year, however, his attitude was different. He actually thought he might like those people; perhaps they had not bored him so badly as he had thought. Upon receiving his invitation he had begun to plan his costume. He visited every costumer in the city to find something impressive, outstanding. At every shop he changed his mind about what he wanted to wear. Michael had finally chosen a "mountie" uniform. Everyone would notice the brass buttoned coat that fit his "Atlas" figure perfectly. He had heard that girls love a uniform. She ought to like it. Her name was Dianne. He knew that she would be at the ball. Hadn't he seen her picture in the society section with the information beneath it? He had seen her upon the streets dozens of times. He had even conversed with her twice. The parents of the two were on the social register; therefore, Michael and Dianne had heard about each other. Dianne had been in Paris for two years; and having just recently returned home, she was "news" for society editors. This night Michael would find her and dance with her the whole evening. Wouldn't the other fellows be envious ? What kind of costume would she be wearing ? He stopped buttoning his coat to find the newspaper to read it again. He knew well what costume she would wear, but he delighted in reading about it. Finding the paper, he turned to the society section, to the page from where the picture had been cut. Oh, yes, there it was. "She will wear a Martha Washington costume," it read. She should be easily found even though everyone would be masked. No one could mistake a Martha Washington costume. Dropping the paper, he resumed buttoning his scarlet coat. Dressed at last, he stood before the mirror trying various facial expressions on himself. Should he be dignified? He held his hair down close to his head, raised his brows, lowered his lids, and lifted his chin. Or should he be the playboy type? He captured a twinkle with his eyes, turned up the corners of his mouth, and ran his fingers through his hair to make it loose. For several minutes he stood before the mirror making all sorts of faces at himself. Finally, he glanced at the clock. This gave him the impetus to start on his way. He did not want to be late, because someone else might catch Dianne before he had a chance. Michael arrived at the Kersey's home early, as he had hoped. After greeting the middle-aged couple, he fastened his half-mask and strolled into the ballroom. There were two or three costumed couples talking and laughing gayly, waiting for the orchestra to begin playing. As none of the ladies wore a Martha Washington dress, Michael knew that Dianne had not arrived; so he returned to converse with the Kerseys, and to be near the entrance so that he could see everyone as they arrived. Mrs. Kersey spoke. "Julie will be glad that you came, Michael." At the sound of the name, Michael scowled inwardly. She would have to come to take the joy out of the party. He decided that he would ignore her. "She has taken quite a fancy to you," Mrs. Kersey added. How well Michael knew this. "You lucky boy! Think of having such a pretty girl, and wealthy, too, in love with you." Mrs. Kersey beamed as she said it. "Tell me," Michael drawled quizzically, "Do you know what kind of costume Julie will be wearing?" He honestly wanted to know. He could then keep away from her more easily. "Why, of course I know, you dear boy. I know that you will want to find her quickly so that you two can spend the evening together," Mrs. Kersey gushed. She left Michael a moment to greet some guests, but she returned promptly. "Julie is going to wear a Martha Washington costume." "A . . . Martha . . . Washington . . . costume . . . ?" Michael stammered. His jaw dropped; he swallowed hard, and starred into space. "Is anything the matter?" questioned Mrs. Kersey. "Oh, no no," Michael jerked out. "Thank you, Mrs. Kersey." Several guests were arriving now; so Michael left Mrs. Kersey so that she could concentrate her personality on her guests. Michael strolled over to a marble pillar and stood there half concealed, but in such a position that he could see the door. He wished that he had stayed home. He could leave now, but Mrs. Kersey would, no doubt, be offended. It wasn't that he detested Julie, but she was so common. Dianne was new and different. All of the fellows pursued her. Michael was uneasy but happy whenever he saw her. As he had never felt this way before, he believed that he was in love with Dianne. It seemed that hundreds of people in every thinkable costume has passed the portals. Suddenly, three ladies entered. Michael, half stunned, gaped. Each one of the three wore a Martha Washington costume one was blue, one yellow, and one pink. Each wore a white curled wig, and each wore a half-mask. What would he do now? Which was which, and who was the extra one? At least their lips could be seen. Yes, he could tell by their lips which one was Dianne. He shoved his hand into his pocket and withdrew the piece he had cut from the newspaper, the picture of Dianne. Covering the eyes with his hand, he studied the lips carefully. Then at every opportunity he studied the lips of the three girls. Finally he was certain that the girl in the pink was Dianne. He might have known she would choose pink she was so delicate and sweet just like the color itself. In a few moments the pink Martha Washington was alone. This was the opportunity Michael had been waiting for. He marched out to the ballroom floor, caught her hand and breathed, "Dianne." Startled, she turned quickly. Seeing Michael, she smiled. "Hello, Michael," she said softly. "Come. Let's go to the balcony," Michael urged. She hesitated, but seeing the other two Marthas staring at them, she consented. On the balcony Michael felt panicky. Now that he had her there alone, what would he say? What would he do? He forgot all of the speeches he had ever thought of. She came to his rescue with "It is a lovely party, isn't it, Michael?" After a general conversation, Michael thought of some of his "lines." "I want to tell you," he stammered, "that you are the most beautiful girl in the world. Your eyes are like" "How can you tell," she asked sweetly, "when I'm wearing a mask?" "The mask makes no difference. For weeks I have purposely walked past your house to try to get a glimpse of you. Everything I look at has (Continued on Page 23) page eleven |