Lonesome Town. James French Dorrance

interloper felt the obligation at least of offering to depart. Irene it was who saved him. With a pout of the most piquantly bowed pair of lips upon which female ever had used unnecessary stick, she dared him to wish to watch the second act with her as much as she wished him to.

      Pape could not keep down the thrill she gave him—she and the situation. To think that he, so lately the wearer of an Indian sign, should be begged to stay in such a circle! Only for a moment did he affect reluctance. During it, he glanced across at the box that was his by right of rental, with its content of brightly attired “true-lovers” blooming above the rail; smiled into the challenge of the precocious child’s black eyes; sank into the chair just behind her.

      “Your friends over there look better able to do without you than I feel,” Irene ventured, with an over-shoulder sigh. “I don’t know who in the world they are, but——”

      “No more do I, Miss Sturgis.”

      “You don’t? You mean——”

      “Righto. Just met up with ’em in the lobby. They hadn’t any seats and I had more than I could use without exerting myself.”

      “How nice! Then they have only half as much right to you as I have. You see, I, as well as Miss Lauderdale, have met you before.”

      “Down Broadway, you mean, and although you didn’t know it?”

      She nodded back at him tenderly. “And although separated by circumstances—I in the car and you on the curb. From my cousin’s descriptions, I adore rangers. Don’t I, dar-rling?”

      “No one could doubt that, eh, Jane?” Harford made answer for Miss Lauderdale, whom he had relieved of her fan with as much solicitude as though each ostrich feather weighed a pound.

      “I do really. Why not?” Low and luringly Irene laughed. “You must look awfully picturesque in your uniform of forest green, your cavalry hat and laced boots.”

      “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m a cowman, not a ranger,” Pape thought advisable to state in a tone calculated to reach the ears of her responsible for his presence in their midst. “But most of the park service members are my friends. I live on the edge of the playground and know them right well.”

      The young girl refused to have her enthusiasm quashed. “Well, that’s just as good. You have their spirit without being tied to the stake of routine, as it were. I detest routine, don’t you? Or do you? On second thought, you’re much better off. Don’t you think he is, dar-rling?”

      In the dimming of the auditorium lights, she leaned closer to him; seemed to transfer the fulsomely drawled term of endearment from her relative to him; added in a cross between murmur and whisper:

      “Isn’t dar-rling a difficult word—hard to say seriously? Fancy caring that much for any one—I mean any one of one’s own sex. Of course, I hope really to love a man that much some day. That is, I do unless I go in for a career. Careers do keep one from getting fat, though. As I am constantly telling my mother——”

      “S-sh!”

      Pape was relieved by Mrs. Allen’s silencing sibilant.

CHAPTER VI—JUST AU REVOIR

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      The great audience caught its breath and hopefully returned attention to the affairs of the French actress who so had shocked and fascinated them at the first act’s end. Stripped almost to the waist, the daring and tuneful Zaza had left them. More conventionally, not to say comfortably clad, she reappeared.

      Pape, as deficient in French as in appreciation of opera arias, applied himself hopefully at first to getting the gist of the piece, but soon concluded that he must be clear “off trail in his lingo.”

      Out in Montana, the most meteoric stage luminary never would think of singing a perfectly good wife and mother into handing over husband and father merely because his eyes had gone sort of blinky star-gazing at her. No. Such a translation didn’t sound reasonable at all; was quite too raw for the range. Better give his ears to the music and buy a Hoyle-translated libretto to-morrow.

      Settling back in his chair, Pape allowed his gaze and mind to concentrate, after a habit acquired of late in Central Park, upon the nearby. She had an expressive profile, the young woman whom he had self-selected. If facial traits had real connection with character, that protruding chin, although curved too youthfully to do justice to its joints, suggested that she would not retreat unless punished beyond her strength. If young Irene only would take one good look at her cousin’s chin she must give up in any contest between them.

      But then, Irene’s mental eye was on herself. To her, evidently, all other women were more or less becoming backgrounds.

      That she should be so near him, Jane; that he actually should get—oh, it wasn’t imagination—the fragrance of her hair; yet that he should be so far away! ... She’d be annoyed and he must not do it, but he felt tempted to train his hired glasses on her, as she had trained hers on him only a few minutes since. He’d have liked again to draw her eyes close to his through their lensed aid and study out the answer to that teasing question—did she or did she not know that she didn’t know him?

      One thing was clear in the semi-gloom. Her neck and shoulders and back looked more like marble than he’d have supposed live flesh could look. And her lines were lovely—not too padded over to conceal the shoulder blades, yet smooth. Above the narrow part of the V of silver lace, a small, dark dot emphasized her whiteness. Was it a freckle or a mole?

      Another than himself seemed interested to know. The handsome Mr. Harford was leaning forward, elbows on knees and chin cupped in hand, his eyes closed, his lips almost touching the beauty spot. Had he given up to the welling wail of Zaza’s attempt to out-sing conventions or was his attention, too, on that tantalizing mark?

      Whether or no, Pape felt at the moment that he must prevent the imminent contact if he did not live to do anything else in life. He, too, leaned forward. But his eyes did not close. They remained wide open, accurately gauging the distance between a pair of sacrilegious mustached lips and——

      Tragedy was temporarily averted or, as it turned out, supplanted. An usher appeared between the curtains; in subdued tones asked for Miss Lauderdale; held up a square, white envelope.

      Jane arose and passed into the cloak room. Mills Harford followed her. Pape in turn, followed him. Observing the girl closely as she tore open the envelope and read the enclosure, he saw alarm on her face; saw the sudden tension of her figure; saw her lips lengthen into a thin line.

      “Chauffeur brought it. He is waiting down stairs for an answer,” the usher advised her.

      “Tell him,” she said, “that I’ll come at once.”

      The usher bowed and vanished.

      “Anything wrong, Jane?” Harford asked.

      “I can’t stay for the last act. Aunt Helene has been—has sent for me.”

      As if fearful lest he should insist upon knowing the contents of her note, she crumpled it in one hand; with the other reached for a brocaded cape that hung on one side of the mirrored rack; allowed him to anticipate her and lay it about her shoulders.

      “I’ll go with you,” said he.

      “No.” She paused in her start toward the corridor and glanced into his face uncertainly. “Tamo is waiting with the car. You must see the opera out. The Farrar probably has thrills and thrills saved for the finale.”

      “Not for me—without you. Of course I’ll go with you, dear.”

      The ardor of the handsome chap’s last pronouncement seemed to decide her.

      “Of course you won’t.” She shook his hand from her shoulder as if offended. “You are giving this party. You owe