Cosmopolitan April 1935 Page 74/75/76/77

Sidney had met her second husband, 

the famous Paul Martigny, 

on the way over from Paris. 

It was an amusing crossing-Paul made it so. 

Don't Ever Leave Me by Katharine Brush

Author of “Young Man of Manhattan” 

Illustrations by McClelland Barclay 

A vital, up-to-the-second novel of modern men and women -and the intricate, tangled pattern that forms their lives

The Story So Far: 

SHE WAS Sidney Cunningham now, wife of Major Cunningham, Northboro's great gentleman. She was also the beautiful and sensational Sidney Cunningham, object of young Don Lamont's extraordinary devotion, and subject of much envious gossip at the fashionable Northboro Country Club. More important than all, to herself, she was Sidney Cunningham, mother of Jay Hough. Jay, her son by a former marriage, was now seventeen, and try as Sidney would not to be fussy and motherly about him, he still occupied more than his fair share of her thoughts.

Jay had been at the club earlier that evening-but only to borrow money from his mother. Sidney knew he had been drinking and she had tried to persuade him to go home in the limousine, dress and return to the club's Labor Day dance. He had promised readily enough-too readily, Sidney feared. And then he had promptly taken his own open car and driven off somewhere in the rain. That had been hours ago and Sidney was getting worried. 

Had she known that Jay was at Idlewild Park with Rose Murillo, she might have had more ground for worry. Rose, once a professional dancer, was now the wife of Steve Murillo, an employee of the Dreyfus china factory. They had been quarreling all day, and Steve was insanely jealous. But Sidney did not even know of their existence. 

Don, realizing her mood, was trying to reassure her when he was called from the room by one of the club stewards who had a phone message for either Don or the Major. 

The message was from an unknown, friend of Jay's who said that Jay was in a fight and someone had better come out there to Idlewild right away. Don volunteered to go because he could always handle Jay better than the boy's stepfather could. 

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YOU MUST MEET Hannah Richards Rogge of the Northboro Herald and Bulletin. No one could tell you more about the people of the country club than Mrs. Rogge, who had been chronicling their doings for thirty years. Professionally she was Northboro's social scribe and editor and arbiter. Her might cannot be overestimated. 

Behold her now, in action-still in action, though it was twelve-thirty at the country club, and she had taken notes since nine o'clock. The chair in which she sat was Press Headquarters. During the dancing it had been the largest chair against the ballroom wall. Now, during the supper interval, her vantage point had shifted to the western corridor-the Peacock Alley of the clubhouse. Press Headquarters was in this instance a couch with a stout arm: the arm the desk on which Mrs. Rogge's notebook rested. 

She worked rapidly, using a shorthand system of her own; wielding a lightning silver pencil which she wore on a long ribbon, swinging free from the majestic satin boulder of her breast. Mrs. Rogge from head to foot was a majestic lady. She was very tall and very large, carrying some fifty excess pounds on her unusual height and sheathing them in satin-covered iron. She had iron hair, dark, rigid-corrugated once a week by the Salon de Beaute, 377 Linden Street, for nothing. 

Mrs. Rogge wrote: "Mrs. C. J. Fntrp wh p d'a w prls & HG fr Hbg Mrs. Sperry (init?)." This took two blue lines in her notebook and eight seconds of her time. Translated, it meant that Mrs. Charles Jordon Fentrup was wearing white peau d'ange, and that her jewels were pearls, and that she had a house guest from Harrisburg, a Mrs. Sperry, whose initials Mrs. Rogge did not yet know, but would find out. 

This was the sort of thing that was required of her, and no one felt more keenly than Mrs. Rogge herself the piffling triviality of her material, contrasted with the magnitude of her talent. She was wasted on the Northboro Herald and Bulletin; and all the stories round about her, all the real stories, were wasted too. . .

Making a memorandum now concerning Marianne Deyo's approaching marriage to Hugo Ullman, Mrs. Rogge was conscious of the things she might have written. All of them. Whole columns. Whole chapters, as a matter of fact. One could write a book about Marianne Deyo, and about Don Lamont who had jilted her, and about Sidney Cunningham, for whose sake it was done, and about the gentle Major and his sad lot in life . . . One could write a novel, or a play. 

Plays and novels were what Mrs. Rogge ought to be writing, naturally. They were what she meant to write, when she had time. Given a sabbatical year, for instance-or even a sabbatical month! she sometimes thought facetiously-she would go far in fiction. She could write like a streak; of course, she did it every day; and as for plots, there was no dearth of those in Northboro, goodness knew. Mrs. Rogge would merely have a hard time choosing. 

The Deyo-Cunningham-Lamont plot was among her current favorites, and she thought that she would probably do that first, when the time came. She had pondered it and planned it long and often in the past two years, She had even labored over it a little, drafting it out roughly in a special secret notebook kept at home. She sometimes did this with her really choice story ideas, and the fact was that Mrs. Rogge had a whole cedar chest quite full of secret notebooks of rough drafts. 

They were all numbered, and some of them were tentatively titled-they had "working titles," in the craftsman's idiom employed by Mrs. Rogge. The Deyo-Cunningham-Lamont plot had a working title. It was called "A Modern Girl," after Marianne Deyo. 

"Mrs. Cunningham is a very much married woman 

and a good ten years older than you are!" 

snapped Mrs. Rogge.

Now at the country club, during this moment of defection from duty, lines from the rough draft of "A Modern Girl" recurred to Mrs. Rogge. They had been recently composed; she knew them almost word for word. They were accurate lines, exact descriptions, actual biographies-even the names in Mrs. Rogge's synopsis were the real names of her subjects. Thirty years of press reporting make one literal. 

"HEROINE: Marianne Deyo," Mrs. Rogge had written for herself. "Typical modern girl (See Title). Age, 22. Large bluish- gray eyes, plucked eyebrows, small thin painted mouth, petulant expression habitual, otherwise fairly pretty. (Make very in story). Long bob of brown hair to shoulders, thick and curled. Looks best in sports clothes; does not go in for sports however (but could in story; probably should to bear out title). Does swim well, and also have seen playing golf and tennis, though rarely.

continued on page 122

"Keeps herself much too thin, has no figure, per se. Feet rather broad, and hands also show peasant strain; Mother was Nobody though very social now. Walter Deyo self-made, having begun as millworker in Pawtucket (Woonsocket?), R. I., as quite young lad. Now owns Deyo Woolen Mills; comfortably well-to-do though believe badly hit by Depression. 

"There children, Marianne only girl and youngest. Born Northboro, educated local private schools and finishing school Connecticut. Ideal match for Don Lamont with whom fell madly in love summer of 1929 and to whom engagement announced following winter but broken off after five months. Reason: Mrs. Cunningham. (Next Page.) 

"HEROINE'S RIVAL: Sidney Cunningham," Mrs. Rogge had written on the next page. "Mrs. William Van Vleck Cunningham, nee Sidney? (Never heard maiden name.) Age? Has son 17 so should judge 38 or 40 though looks younger, being pampered type, toils not nor spins. (However, nickname 'Babe' highly unsuitable whatever age.) Slightly over medium height, slender, with sinuous figure, even sexy my opinion, including undulating walk like gown model or 'show' girl. Does not dress as would expect, however; has great chic, in fact.

"Outstanding physical characteristics (besides figure), dark expressive eyes, volatile features, quite sensual mouth, very dark thick wavy hair with probably artificial white streak, always coiffed in latest fashion by personal maid who speaks no English. (French.) Hands really beautiful suggesting breeding but this contradicted by tattoo mark representing very small but distinct black cat quite low on skin of back, certainly most odd. Evidently not ashamed of it, however, as wears backless evening gowns; furthermore, similar cats rumored embroidered on all underclothing. 

"PAST HISTORY complicated as has had two previous husbands, making three in all; also once fashion designer in N. Y., so it is said. (N.B. Need not go deeply into Past in story; merely touch lightly on it as little or no bearing, besides which authentic information inadequate though apocryphal rumors rife, she herself does not talk about it, which fact sufficiently eloquent should think.) " 

That completed that page. "Forward," Mrs. Rogge had written in the lower corner, in parentheses. Heading the new leaf "SIDNEY CUNNINGHAM - Continued," she had proceeded swiftly, inspirationally, as before:

''Not altogether fair have said 'toils not nor spins' because undeniably does some work Unemployment Relief including solicitation funds and herself started Soup Kitchen in West End but these good acts felt to be bid for restoration social favor following fall from grace in past two years. (See Don Lamont.) Other interests horseback riding, gardening, music; also own clothes which designs herself though practically commutes N. Y. and Paris. 

"Has Louis Quinze bedroom and dressing room self-decorated with shoe closets and perfume closet said to look like complete shops of same. First gesture as bride (1927) was redecoration and remodeling old Cunningham mansion, possibly at Billy's instigation though not known for certain; in any case, changes considered sacrilege by older residents. Number rooms reduced from forty (if remember rightly) to twenty-eight at present, this including two new wings added to rear forming concealed inner court called patio with swimming pool. 

"One wing entirely given over to son who lives like princeling though dreadful boy, drunkard and worse at 17. (N.B. Think best omit boy in writing story; character of Mrs. Cunningham probably more effective if childless.) Marriage Billy Cunningham took place less than year after divorce from Husband Number Two (foreigner named Martigny.) Long honeymoon spent traveling Europe and arrived Northboro autumn 1927 with son and tutor also-(Forward)- 

"-maid and Russian wolfhound. Introductory reception Northboro given by Norah Thrum as oldest family friend (see office scrapbook 1927 for detailed account this function). Naturally accepted socially though people dubious from very first because of previous marriages, excessive jewels, exotic appearance, tattoo mark; however, Billy himself apparently worshipful ground she walked on then as now. 

"On whole comported herself well enough at first and although surrounded all times by gay young people younger than self, including numerous bachelors and even college boys dancing attendance, nevertheless little or no breath of scandal first two years since safety in numbers. Towards end of third year all this abruptly changed however and actual plot 'A Modern Girl' officially begins with introduction of HERO. (Following.)" 

So Mrs. Rogge had come to Don Lamont, who was her favorite major character, even as Billy Cunningham was her favorite secondary one. She always liked her male characters better, and in secret composition always wrote more sympathetically of them than of their women. Moreover, she knew Don very well indeed, and she had always known him; his mother had been one of her close friends when he was born. When he was little they had taught him to call Mrs. Rogge "Aunt Hannah," and Mrs. Rogge still wished he would. Perhaps he did, she thought, in thinking of her. She almost never saw him any more. 

This was the fault of Sidney Cunningham, by whom he was bewitched, in Mrs. Rogge's opinion and in her frequent phrase. He had not been himself these past two years. There was no other explanation of his conduct, and Mrs. Rogge was the more certain of it in that she had had occasion personally to observe the really shocking temperamental difference in him. 

In stricter truth, she had made the occasion-she had made it more than once-she had not so much observed the difference in Don as suffered it. Corralling him at social gatherings, she had attempted to restore him to his senses in the matter of Mrs. Cunningham by gentle chiding, by remonstrance, by irrefutable logic, and by painting Mrs. Cunningham for him in her true light. 

This, at least, had been Mrs. Rogge's planned procedure. It had not quite worked out that way in actual performance. She had made three attempts, all told, of which the first one hardly counted, since Don persisted in regarding the whole thing as a huge joke. 

Better luck-to a point-had attended Mrs. Rogge's second attempt. In that instance he at least had listened for a little while. She remembered his blue eyes regarding her attentively; and she remembered thinking, "How well he's taking it!" 

Then he had interrupted, saying with that impudent familiarity she usually adored from him, "You need a drink, Aunt Hannah Richards Rogge, my girl. You really do. Frog in your throat or something. Don't argue, now-I heard it. You come with me," he had said, further, and he had grasped her by the arm and led her to a chair, and pushed her into it. "There, now," he had said. "What'll it be-a lemonade? Okay. You wait there, and I'll bring you one." But he had sent a steward. 

MRS. ROGGE had tried again a fortnight later. "Be serious this time," she had implored him, while he looked at her. She still remembered what a different look that was. 

She remembered all the circumstances - where they were, and why, and all about it. There was the little polo club, known as the Bound Brook Club, that Don had started after he left college and came home to live. The two fields-one of them a practice field - and the log-cabin clubhouse had been built by him. 

The Bound Brook membership was small, entirely male, and quite select, comprising as it did the sons of the more affluent and fashionable families of Northboro and environs. Whenever they played exhibition matches on a Sunday afternoon, or on a holiday, and gave a party afterward in their amusing clubhouse, Society turned out in force, and Mrs. Rogge in her small sedan would drive the twenty miles to get the story. 

This had been one such day - a Labor Day, if Mrs. Rogge remembered rightly. Two years ago this afternoon, she might have mused this evening. It had been, for Mrs. Rogge, one of those days when everything goes wrong. Her car had broken down; her notebook had been left behind; the sun had beaten mercilessly on the polo stands during the two hours or more that Mrs. Rogge was forced to sit there working; and a sudden breeze had blown away two pages of her notes - two full columns in embryo-inscribed on Bound Brook stationery. 

As a crowning irritation, she had learned, three days too late, that Don had had a house party of twenty people since the previous Friday. Everyone seemed to know it except Hannah Richards Rogge, who should have heard it first of all and straight from Don. This matter must be taken up with him; and when the cocktail party following the match was nearly over, Mrs. Rogge perceived her opportunity and her excuse. She was stranded here, apparently; a sports writer named Dooley had driven her from Northboro, and now that she was ready to return, Dooley was missing. Exhaustive inquiry finally located him in the locker room, but messengers dispatched to fetch him thence reappeared empty-handed. They reported, one and all, that Mr. Dooley was writing his story, he said. Mrs. Rogge snorted that this was nonsense, and it was. 

She beckoned Don, and managed to detach him from a group of leave-takers. 

He came to her, bearing a highball glass. He had seen Dooley, and he smiled commiseratingly at her. "Never mind," he said. "I'll get you home all right. But you don't have to go yet, do you?" 

"Well, not for a minute, no," Mrs. Rogge said quickly. "I'm in no great hurry." She indicated the vacant half of the love seat from which she addressed him. "Do sit down here and rest and talk to me. I haven't even had a chance to tell you what a magnificent game you played this afternoon." 

He did sit down, collapsing lazily and stretching his long legs. "Yeah, didn't I?" he said, sipping from his glass. 

Mrs. Rogge was happy to observe that it was only a sip. "You're not drinking too much these days, are you, Donald?" she nevertheless asked anxiously. 

"Not enough, Hannah," he assured her. 

"Not even at the house party?" she said. "A good deal of drinking goes on at house parties, I've always heard. And that reminds me, Don, I'm really very much provoked with you."

"What have I done now?" 

"You've been a wicked boy," said Mrs. Rogge-"that's what you've done! Here you've had a house party of twenty people ever since Friday, and now it's Monday, and I could have used it and used it -and you never told me! I think that's dreadful of you." 

Don agreed that it was. "Um," he said, into his highball glass. "The trouble is," he explained, when he emerged, "I have no nose for news. Can't you do something about it? There must be some rules or something. Man bites dog, and wicked boy gives house party -those are big scoops, I take it. What are some others?" 

"Now you're teasing me!" 

"Never mind," he said. "Just pay no attention . . . So you steal stationery, do you!" he added, scowling fiercely, as Mrs. Rogge produced her scribbled sheaves of Bound Brook paper. 

Mrs. Rogge laughed guiltily. "Well, you see, I found I'd forgotten my notebook." She withdrew her silver pencil from her handbag. "And now I must get down to business. I want those names, now, Don." 

"Names?" 

"The people at your house party. Though of course I can guess some of them." Mrs. Rogge paused significantly. "Mrs. Cunningham, for one." 

"Very good," said Don. "Say, that's quite a trick! How do you do that?" He was laughing at her, Mrs. Rogge perceived indignantly. "How about Mister Cunningham?" he said. "Aha, I bet you'd never guess him! Well, it was a hell of a note, but I had to invite him too." 

"I dare say you did!" 

"Yup. Well, but that's life. The bitter with the sweet." 

It was clear that something must be done about this conversation, which had somehow taken the right turn in altogether the wrong way. Mrs. Rogge, who always sat with a straight spine, like royalty, now stiffened a little more. 

"Now, Donald, you mustn't take that tone," she said. "This is no light matter. I want you to remember that I have your best interests at heart- as I think you know I always have had- and I want you to listen to me. Mrs. Cunningham is a married woman." 

"Don't I know it?" he said disconsolately. 

"A very much married woman!" Mrs. Rogge snapped. "A woman who has had three husbands so far, and who now has a son who must be considerably nearer your age than you are near hers! Mrs. Cunningham is ten years older than you are! I suppose you know that!" 

"Yes, I do," Don said. "It's incredible, isn't it? I mean, she doesn't look a day over twenty-five." 

He smiled amiably, but there was no answering smile from Mrs. Rogge, who moaned, "Donald, Donald, I asked you -I begged you to be serious." "Well, yes, and I could be, easily," he said. "But you wouldn’t like it." 

"I wouldn't like it?"

"No," he said, still smiling a little. "You wouldn't like it at all. Think what I'd say."

"I don't think I quite understand you," Mrs. Rogge said coldly. "Think what you would say about what?" 

"About your bringing all this up again -for one thing."

"Very well," Mrs. Rogge said, glacially now. "Very well. What would you say?" "I can only give you a rough idea," he said. "I haven't figured it out exactly- but I imagine I'd tell you to, go to hell in a wheelbarrow."

"Donald Lamont!" 

"Well, there you are, you see," he said. "You can't take it. I wouldn't keep asking for it, if I were you." 

He looked at her briefly, and he seemed to be quite serious just then . . . 

Mrs. Rogge had really never had a more hideous afternoon.

BUT THAT had been two years ago, and time heals everything. She had forgiven him his levity, his impertinence -even his appalling rudeness at the last. Mrs. Rogge would never forgive Mrs. Cunningham for any of these things, but Don was not responsible. He was a man possessed. 

He would recover, and in the meantime Mrs. Rogge preferred to think of him as he had been, and as he would be, and as of course he still was fundamentally. His surface aberration was, a plot for Mrs. Rogge the artist; his character, she knew, remained the same beneath it all. It was therefore with a fond heart and a fulsome pen that Mrs. Rogge, in private notebook Number 53-"Outline for 'A Modern Girl' "-had dealt with 

"HERO: Donald Haynes Lamont." Here was for- giveness, pressed down and running over. . . 

"HERO: Donald Haynes Lamont. Born April 8, 1907," Mrs. Rogge had written. "Hence 25 this year (1932). Almost too good-looking being huge in stature 6 feet 1 or 2 with broad shoulders V -shaped torso, head like Greek God. Coloring blond with light-brown curly hair parted in center, eyes extremely blue. Mother was Eleanor Ruth Haynes of Northboro beautiful person if ever one lived. Married Josiah Lamont wealthy stove manufacturer. Died when Don was eleven. . . 

"Josiah's surname really Lehrkinder (Pennsylvania 'Dutch'), though changed it legally to Lamont when young. (Reason: Break with family and business success of own.) Self-made like Walter Deyo (see HEROINE). 

"Was already middle-aged and millionaire whim first appeared Northboro, Bound Brook, etc., where established factories and later built present house for Eleanor as bride. (Insert description of house here; also think this as good a place as any for description of polo club built by Don in spring of 1929, also large farm in Maryland-Harford County- bought 4 years ago where he-Don-attempts raise polo ponies, project so far complete financial loss as far as I can make out.) 

"Fond of discussing horses," Mrs. Rogge had supplemented to the foregoing parenthesis, "also of hunting, and all other forms of equestrian activity, but of course particularly of polo, which is his career if any (breeding ponies hardly counts, at least so far). Readers' question will then be, 'But what became stove factories?' and should explain that sold them 1928 almost immediately after sudden death Josiah (December), to rival firm (Ohio) for five or six million. 

"Sale would have broken father's heart, I feel quite sure, and especially as rushed into stock market with money and was figuratively if not literally just in time for Crash (October, 1929), in which said to have lost half at least. Has always been philosophical and in fact nonchalant about it at least outwardly and continues live in most extravagant manner imaginable. Does not own yacht but chartered one last winter and took sixteen people (think it was) Bermuda and West Indies for month or more Mrs. Cunningham chaperoning!? 

"Furthermore, sails Europe drop of hat invariably managing be there simultaneously, with Mrs. Cunningham. I cannot think why Major Cunningham does not add two and two or does he, what is situation anyway, shall never understand it and am not alone in this; completely mystifies everyone." 

And now-now in this meditative moment at the country club-it was really very strange, it seemed to Mrs. Rogge that it was almost psychic, that the very persons of whom she had just been thinking -two of them, at least -should be standing vis-a-vis at a point some distance down the corridor. They were Don and Major Cunningham, and they were near the billiard room, and Mrs. Rogge's impression was that Don was full of urgent haste, although he did not move. He stood there talking- telling the Major something; instructing the Major, it incredibly appeared.

Mrs. Rogge was still bemused by this, and by the Major's calm reception of it- she saw him nod, as one who says, "I will do as you say"- when an even more remarkable thing happened. Seizing a glass of something from a tray a passing steward was carrying, Don drank a toast to Major Cunningham. Mrs. Rogge distinctly saw it. There was no doubt about it. The lover to the husband- who smiled mildly back at him. 

"Well, I'm off," Don said. 

"You're quite sure you don't want me to go with you?" 

Don was very sure. "It's much more important for you to stay here, don't you think?" 

"Well," said the Major. "Telephone me if there's any difficulty. Better take Riley with you, hadn't you? You haven't got your own chauffeur." 

"That's all right," Don said, "thanks. I can make better time if I drive myself. Don't worry," he added. "And of course you won't let Sidney worry. I'll get back here as fast as I can -complete with young Dempsey." 

"If he's in good shape," said the Major. "Otherwise, you'd better drop him at the house." 

"Yes, I'll do that," Don said, over his shoulder. 

The Major watched him go, feeling at once a little guilty and a little irritated- whether more with Don or with himself he did not know. The thought of Jay was the one positive focus for his irritation, and he frowned a little, turning toward the billiard room. It had begun again, then, had it? Jay was drinking again, obviously. The Major had known all along that it was only a question of time. Poor Sidney . . . 

He entered the billiard room. It was a large room, cluttered now with supper groups that ranged numerically from couples in the window seats to crowds at the far ends. The Major sought the north end of the room. 

There was a cavernous fireplace there, with a high mantel. Around the hearth was Sidney's group, exclusive in a barricade of chairs and couches. 

HE WAS DISTRESSED to see how tired and white Sidney looked, although she smiled. He knew that look- it made her older, and yet, curiously, more like Jay. The resemblance was less marked when she was happy. 

She said, "Darling; this is very nice," and her eyes said, "I've needed you." When he was near enough, her hand reached out for his, and when he took the seat beside her on the couch- Don's former place- her fingers remained clasped in his fingers, clinging to him. 

They could not really talk at first. Everyone was merry, and the general conversation included them, insistently; the Major sensed a sympathetic effort on the part of everyone to divert Sidney. He saw puzzled- Don had not explained that Jay had been here earlier, thinking he knew it, and he did not know it.

Now he was aware of some omission in his understanding. Something more unusual than Jay's absence from home since morning, or his failure to appear tonight, was grieving Sidney now. He felt the nervous tension of her fingers in his own, and twice she turned and glanced back toward the door. 

"I'm afraid you're tired, aren't you?" the Major said. 

"I am, rather. It's been a-funny sort of evening." 

"I think I'd better take you home." "Not yet," she said. "Unless you want to go. I'd like to wait a little longer . . ." Her voice trailed off. "What time is it, Billy?" she asked, then. 

As if in answer, there was a crash of music from the ballroom, and a sudden stir through all the supper groups. 

"It's quite late, isn't it?" Sidney decided faintly. 

"Why, no," the Major said. "Not very," He was taking out his watch. "It's twenty-five minutes of one." 

He saw Sidney's lashes quiver, but otherwise she made no comment. Don must surely have reached Idlewild by now, the Major reflected. Fifteen minutes, more or less, would have sufficed for such a driver.

Now the rest of the group had left them and they could talk. "Tell me, my dearest one," he, said. "I'm worried about you. Why was it a bad evening? Because Jay didn't come?" 

"He did come," she said quickly. "Didn't you see him? He was here for a little while- about half past ten."

She told him all of it. Listening, the Major realized anew how very much disturbed she was- she did not often reveal any perfidy of Jay’s to him if she could help it. Ordinarily it was to Don that she poured out her heart like this- to Don, who forgave Jay too much, being almost his contemporary. The Major understood. 

She admitted now that Jay might have been drinking hard again; might have been lying to her with every word he said. "Either that, or something's happened to him," she concluded desolately. "It couldn't take him two whole hours, Billy- I don't see how it could, do you? I called the house at twelve o'clock, while Don was in the dining room-" 

She did not finish that. "And now Don’s gone," she said. "I don't know where. Oh, I don't suppose there's any connection, but- I thought there might be. We were all sitting here having supper, and there was this mysterious message- Thompson called Don out, but he -locked at me -or I thought he did-" 

"My dear," the Major interrupted casually, "I can explain that. I met Don in the corridor as I came in. Jay had just telephoned saying he was stuck somewhere on the road- out of gasoline or something of the sort. Don went to rescue him. I ought to have told you at once, of course, but I had no idea-" 

"Wait, Billy," Sidney said, and he perceived that he had not succeeded wholly. There was relief, but there was also incredulity in her dark gaze. "Are you sure that was all it was? But why should Don- and in a storm like this- Why didn't he send Riley? Or call a garage, or something? I don't see." 

"Nor did I," agreed the Major readily. "But Don insisted. Your faithful servant, darling. He knew you were concerned about the boy, and I suppose he wanted to make sure he got here safely."

"It isn't true, Billy," said Sidney in a small, fiat voice. "There's something else. What did Don say exactly? Tell me." 

The Major's forced acknowledgment was imperturbable. "There is a little something else," he said, "but the important thing is true. Don is with him now, and they will be here shortly." He made a mental reservation- "Here or at the house"- and added quietly aloud, "You may believe me when I say that." 

He could not know that it would not be so.

Sometimes when Sidney Cunningham looked back upon her life, it seemed to her that all the trouble she had had with Jay began when he was eight and nine: when she became- for two years- Madame Paul Martigny. Sometimes she thought that it had antedated even that. There had been warnings even earlier. When Jay was seven . . . 

The year 1922. She was still working, still living in New York, alone with Jay. 

Jay at seven was a handsome little boy, with huge black eyes in a small solemn face, a shock of soft black hair, long hands, surprising for his age, and a persistent pallor that his daily hours of polite play in Central Park with other governesses' charges barely altered. He was well, so it did not alarm her. 

He was growing fast- he would be very tall, she thought with confidence. She hoped he would be broad and strong, and splendid, and immense. 

New York was an excuse to stress the physical development of small New Yorkers, whose outdoor life and opportunities for exercise were pitifully limited at best. Sidney sent Jay to riding school when he was less than seven, and she had him taught to fence and swim and dive. A contemporary swain named Sandy Roburn had endeared himself to her by seeming genuinely interested in Jay, giving him boxing lessons in many patient hours that winter.

The final Fraulein was still indispensable, although in changing ways. She remained primarily Jay's governess, but there was less and less to do for him as time went on, and she did more for Sidney. 

She managed the apartment, mothered both the occupants, planned and prepared and served Jay's meals and Sidney's breakfasts. She took exquisite care of Sidney's clothes. She did the marketing, and did it economically. 

Nor were her vocational duties neglected for these adopted ones- Jay was scrubbed until he shone, he was taught languages and manners, and he was disciplined when discipline was indicated. This was rather often. It was oftener than Sidney comprehended, until later on. If Fraulein had a fault it was that she was too considerate. She did not like to worry Mrs. Hough.

"Has Jay been good today, Fraulein?" 

He almost always had been good. The only variation was degree. He had been very good, Fraulein would answer warmly, or she would say, "Well, yes, Mrs. Hough, he's been pretty good. He's quite good now. He's playing with his trains. We had a little temper after we got home from school, but it was nothing." 

"What happened?" 

"It was really nothing. He didn't want to practice his music, that was all. He tore the book- but he was very sorry afterwards. We had a talk about it, and I sent him to his room to think it over, and he came and told me he was sorry. He's going to buy his own new book, out of his little bank."

 Sidney would smile fleetingly at that. "Poor lamb." 

"He was just tired," Fraulein would say. "And you are tired too, aren't you, Mrs. Hough? You need a rest so badly. Let me take your things." 

Sidney saw it all so clearly later. Jay had been a little difficult, even at seven. That false sense of security that she had had about him, that freedom from misgivings for so long- that had been Fraulein's contribution to her strength in those depleting days, as kindly meant it was readily acceptable. 

There was no rest at all for her that year. That was the hardest business year. Paris in August did not count, because the shop had sent her, and the fortnight was all work and no play. 

Jay was away from late in June until September. Three weekends of that summer were spent principally in sleeping cars bound for New Hampshire, where his camp was, and returning. Sidney had accompanied him there when the camp opened, and she visited him once, and in September brought him back. None of these trips was really necessary- she was babying him, she knew. 

I" have always been a fool about him." 

They were not so tactful at the camp as Fraulein was. There they were men who knew boys: who told you frankly what they thought. 

Young Jay was spoiled, they said. He was a little willful, a little obstinate- even at times a little sly. He needed stricter supervision, and sterner management. He'd be all right if the right things were done. He was a clever little chap, extraordinary in some ways. But she must rule him. 

Sidney remembered nodding helplessly. "Yes. Yes, I know. I must." 

She had only an hour a day with Jay, on working days. She had only a Sunday once a week. Did they know that? 

Because it all came down to that, and Sidney learned it bitterly- you could not be a proper mother in the tag ends of long business days, no matter how the feminists might argue. You could not be an only parent and be adequate, with time so broken and so brief. 

Sidney reached home at six at night; Jay went to bed at seven. They were adoring strangers; they were special playmates for each other- it was the relationship common to fathers and their juvenile sons, but the thing was that it was all Jay had, and it was not enough.

She might have married Sandy Roburn- for Jay's sake, if for no other reason. Sandy was very good for Jay, and to him. He was a darling, and of all the men who ever cared at all for her he was the only helpful one, in point of fact. He was the one who reckoned up her income tax for her, balanced her checkbook, procured her visas and her steamship tickets when she sailed that August, and again the following February, and again the following August. 

It was always Sandy, until that second August. He was not only good for Jay, but good for her. He scolded her and bossed her and brooded over her, and laughed at her sometimes, or let her weep against his shoulder. He was her best friend in the world, and if she had been going to marry anyone in 1923, she should have married Sandy. She knew that afterwards. She had known it when she married Paul Martibny, like a little fool. 

"I met him that summer," she would tell Billy Cunningham, in four more years. ''I'd been in Paris again, for the fall openings- that was in August- and I met him on the boat train to Le Havre when I was starting home. He was with some people named Murchison whom I knew slightly and didn't like at all- he didn't, either; he'd just met them somewhere and they'd fastened on him- and they rushed him in to show him to me as soon as the train left the Gare Saint Lazare. 

"They were very excited about him- almost overcome, in fact- and they introduced him as if I ought to beat my forehead on the floor. This, said Ellie Murchison, was the famous Paul Martigny and though she didn't exactly explain in her introductory sentence what he was famous for, it was easy to guess that it was his money, as much as anything else. .

"Besides, Ellie did explain, at the first possible opportunity. . I remember her hissing into my ear, 'Martigny et Fils- you know- the jewelers, in the Place Vendome!' That was her second sentence, or possibly her third, and of course I did know then, or at least I knew the shop. There was one in New York too, and one in Palm Beach in the season. I've forgotten how many branches there are altogether, in how many countries. 

"I'm not very clever at describing people, and anyway you've seen pictures of him- and it isn't important, except that I thought he was rather good-looking. He was thirty-five then- I was twenty-nine, on my truthful passport- and he wasn't much taller than I in my highest heels, and his hair was a little thin, but he had attractive features and marvelous clothes and the general effect was good, and of course it improved when he began talking, because he was utterly charming. 

"So it was an amusing crossing, but it wasn't particularly significant in any way- I remember I began by sleeping a great deal, because I was so played out- I didn't know until I knew Paul better that my complete disappearance for forty-eight hours or more after we sailed was very astute and provocative of me.

"There was a kind of startled silence for a while, and then little notes and invitations began coming in, and then books, and bottles of choice wine, and a jade cigaret holder- and finally, when we were two and a half days out, there arrived at my bedside a red morocco box from Martigny and Son containing a pair of earrings, diamonds and sapphires, bribery and corruption, and so then of course I had to get up. I had to get up to give them back, and I stayed up. 

"The rest of the voyage was rather fun; he made it so, and the North Atlantic assisted nobly- I remember there was a magnificent storm, and we spent one whole day watching it from a table in the smoking room, and talking and talking . . . I think we never talked so long or so honestly to each other again.

"Well, and then we landed, the next afternoon, and Sandy Roburn met me at the pier, and half the town seemed to be meeting Paul, and I thought, 'Well, that's that' -mildly regretful, but only mildly -and I really thought it would be. He was sailing again in a week, or he thought he was. I left the pier, and Sandy took me home in a taxi- West Fourteenth Street to East Eighty-first -and when I unlocked the door of my apartment Fraulein was standing at the telephone saying, 'I'm very sorry, I'm afraid you will have to spell it,' and I said, 'No, never mind. I know,' and I did, and it was. 

"And I had dinner that evening with Sandy, but I had supper with Paul, and lunch the next day, and dinner the next evening, and he didn't sail in a week after all-he didn't sail till October, as a matter of fact, and by that time I'd said I'd marry him. I must have said I would, though I don't remember ever saying it. I just remember his taking it for granted. 

"He went back to tell Madame Martigny- get her permission, actually- he didn't admit it, but I suspected that that was going to require considerable tact and persuasion, and after I met her I was sure it had. She's a fabulous 'woman, Billy. Sixty years old, and tiny, and dynamic, and shrewd! She runs that whole tremendous business, you know, and has ever since Paul's father died, and that was twenty years or more ago. Paul only adorns it, really -an arrangement that seems to suit them both.

"Of course Madame Martigny never approved of the marriage and never could- I was an American, and penniless, and a widow with a child besides, and so not a suitable match for Paul on any count. She concluded at once- and naturally enough, I suppose -that I'd married him for his money. It took me two years even to begin to dispel that maternal conviction; and of course then when we separated, and Paul voluntarily and very generously provided for Jay and me, it all came back to her, and there was the most shattering scene. 

"Where was I? It seems to be hard to stick to the chronological order of this little history. . . There isn't much more of it, though. Paul came back in December, having bought a house in the Avenue Victor Hugo, and given a decorator carte blanche, and having raided the vaults in the Paris shop for jewels for me -these I'm wearing, among others- and do you mind my still wearing them, Billy? Shall you mind? I'd rather sell them or something, if you do. 

"I had given up my job, meanwhile, and bought a trousseau with my savings, such as they were, and generally burned all bridges -a little scared, and still wondering whether I really wanted to marry him, or whether I was merely momentarily fascinated, or just tired of working, or carried away by the idea that Continental schools would be good for Jay, and that he ought to have a stepfather, and that a mother with leisure to devote to him might help a little. 

"I was as vague as that. It seems incredible, because I see so clearly now that it could never have worked, that marriage -and for reasons which I think I knew even then. I wasn't in love with Paul at all, and I knew I wasn't. I must have known it. There were times when I didn't even like him very well -and I knew that, too. When he was insanely jealous over nothing. 

"I don't mean to blame him too much, Billy. It's only fair that you should bear in mind that this is my version. As a matter of fact, nothing was right about that marriage, really, from anyone's point of view; and it wasn't long before we both realized it . . .

"We were married at Christmas-time, and we spent the next few months in Egypt and the Greek Islands, and the South of France, finally-Paul had a villa at Cap Ferrat -and then we moved into the house in Paris and I was allowed to send for Jay. Poor little soul, he'd been alone with Fraulein in New York all winter- and there was nothing I could do. Nothing except quarrel with Paul, and I hated to begin that way; but at the same time I began to see how it was going to be. 

"Paul liked children, as all French-men do, and he'd been sweet to Jay in New York- I'd felt so safe about that part of it, and now I' didn't any more. We could so easily have sent for Jay two months earlier than we did- and it would have been so much wiser, as it turned out. I'd never been away from him for so long, and when he arrived in Paris everything was terribly strange to him, of course, including me- this mother who had deserted him and gone off somewhere with someone he scarcely knew. 

"He was only just nine and couldn't possibly understand anything that was happening to him. And out of fright and nostalgia and bewilderment, and in general a sense of being utterly lost, he began to behave like an absolute little demon. I'd never seen anything to equal it. 

"Neither had Paul, and naturally he was aghast, and as for his mother-!  I'd rather not even think about her. The trouble with Paul was, of course, that his liking for children was an abstract sort of thing; he expected them to be amusing and good under all circumstances and moreover, he hated having his life upset in any way- he just wouldn't have it upset, and that was that. 

"For his sins Jay was banished most of the time- just when he needed me most- and we were always going away on trips and leaving him again. Paul simply wouldn't take him, at least until he'd adapted himself a little better- and on the other hand, Jay couldn't adapt himself as long as he was lonely and frightened- and you can see what a vicious circle the whole thing was. 

"There were other things, too, though I don't think they mattered so much, in the final analysis. Some of them were Paul's fault and many of them were mine- I know now that I should have foreseen that my American independence wouldn't lend itself any too well to marriage with a Paul Martigny. I didn't like not being consulted, ever, about anything- I didn't like being told what to do and whom to see and how to dress . " I'm afraid I wasn't very gracious about it, ever. 

"I've already mentioned Paul's jealousy, and that was a factor, unquestionably. It gave us both a wretched time of it. He wanted me to attract attention- he chose all my clothes himself with that in mind, and he decked me out in gorgeous jewels. And it was his idea that I dye this white streak in my hair, before anyone else had one. 

"He wanted me to be seen wherever I went, and admired if possible- but the point was that the admiration had to be general and not particular, or he went mad. I could cite instances galore, but I'd rather spare you-and myself. They weren't very pleasant. 

"I think that's about all there is to tell you about the marriage, Billy. It lasted two years, but it all began to end so long before that. It was an episode, really. The only thing that made it important was the effect it had on Jay; that needs a little more explanation, for your understanding. 

"I've told you how he was at first, and how little chance he had to get over it, quickly and painlessly, as he should have done. Those first months were so hectic -I was meeting all Paul's friends and trying to live his life-and even though I realized dimly what it was doing to Jay, I couldn't help neglecting him.

"The result was that although Jay's tantrums abated, as of course they had to in an adult world, he still wasn't himself, and I grew more and more alarmed about him. The second stage was a kind of sullenness that was even harder to deal with than the open rebellion had been -and that made it clearer than ever that he hadn't forgiven me for all the things he didn't understand, and that something had to be done. 

"I wanted Paul to let me go away somewhere alone with Jay and try to straighten things out in his mind, once and for all -but Paul wouldn't hear of that. Nor would he take Jay anywhere we went, until finally I said, 'Very well, I won't go, then. I can't leave him, when he's this way.' And I didn't go. 

"You understand, don't you, Billy? It had come to a choice between Jay and Paul- and there just wasn't any choice, really. That was what it amounted to, and Paul knew it as well as I did. That was when we'd been married about a year, and although I lived another year in his house- he wanted me to, for appearance's sake -the marriage itself was over. 

"I had time enough for Jay then, but I still couldn't do much with him- it took me a long time to realize how badly I'd hurt him. Now that I have a perspective on it I can see that I didn't even begin to penetrate the funny sad little shell he'd built around himself until we'd left Paris and Paul entirely, and were living alone together again. I took a house in Lausanne, and Jay went to school there the rest of that year- that was year before last--and Fraulein was with us, and life was normal again, and we were quite happy. Of course it was Paul's generosity that made it possible . . . 

"The rest you know. We came home that summer and spent three months in a cottage on the coast of Maine, then went back to Switzerland for another school year- during which the divorce was granted in Paris -and here we are. "You've seen how Jay is now. He's still a little grave and reticent and -well, and ancient- for a twelve-year-old. There are still times when he frightens me; times when I think he's really never got over the shock of that Paris experience; times when I don't know how to handle him -when I can't find out or even imagine what's going on in his mind. 

"He's a strange child, Billy, in some ways -but he's a darling one. You're fond of him already, aren't you? It makes me so happy -and so confident about him. Everything will be all right, now I have you. I know. I know."

Next Month, the conclusion of this brilliant novel by the famous author of "Young Man of Manhattan" and "Red-headed Woman"