Harper's Bazaar 1926-02

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2/- IN LONDON Ha: rpe 50¢ “JOFR In Panis. me) Bazar FEBRUARY LIQ 20

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YOU JUST KNOW SHE WEARS THEM Unerring taste leads ber to choose not only entrancing operad lo bear, bul moet charming things lo wear—/frock, Jewels, dlockings . . . For the vilken beauly of the latter obe Demands McCallum Silk Hostery. She knows that for tbe superla- live in olyle, qualily and wear MeCallum dlands alone. To tell you ata glance which otyle beot outls tbe trimness of your ankles, we bave published the new McCallum “Book of Distinctive Hootery.”” It tells in words and pictures of the latest lbings in stocking- olyle. This little book ts yours, free, for the asking. Address McCallum Howery Co., Northampton, Mavs.

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arper’s bazar Number 2560 soth Year FEBRUARY 1926 The Spring Fabrics Number Avis OUS les modeles reproduits dans notre magazine sont la propriété de leurs créateurs. Les reproductions, imi- tations ou contrefagons méme partielles peuvent toujours entertainer contre leurs auteurs des pursuites de la part des créateurs et de l’ Association des Arts Plastiques et A ppliqués en France et dl’ Etranger. NEXT MONTH Wwe ARE in the process of achieving a long-cherished ambition. In the March Harper’s Bazar we are publishing the first chapter of a new, exotic, and colorful novel by JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER. The locale is modern Mexico. The title is “Tampico.” We do not need to add words to this introduction. The name of Joseph Hergesheimer is its own recommendation. But even that is not all. We promised an unusual fiction program for 1926. In March there will be stories by Irvin Cobb, Mildred Cram, and Arthur Somers Roche, while, of course, Anita Loos will continue her amusing research into the life of the modern débutante, new chapters of the Walpole novel will appear, and there will be an article on health by the Countess of Oxford and Asquith. Of course this extensive fiction program does not in any way interfere with the regular Harper’s Bazar fashion pages, which will be as varied and interesting as ever. THE NEw FABRICS O ONE knows what the new spring frocks will be. They are still on the knees of the goddesses only. The turn of mere mortals will come later. But the most fragile frocks must be made of something, and the tale of that something on both sides of the Atlantic is told in New York and Paris fabric articles by Lucile Buchanan and Marjorie Howard. Next season the fabric will be the thing. Modern women are fairly well pleased with the existing silhouette, and quite content to let the sports influence rule their clothes. But the French designers must live up to their reputation for novelty. So they are juggling fabrics as they have never been juggled before. Lace sports frocks, duvetyn evening gowns—read what the material mode is coming to in the fabric pages further on. Cover, by Erté Page “Tea at Drecoll’s,” Frontispiece by Etienne Drian....................... PA 48 “* Matches for Princesses, ’’an Authoritative Article by Marie, Queen of Roumania 49 Traveling Costumes for the Riviera Drawe by Bornard B..de Mandl... cc ct casevecceeekass 50, 51 Fashions, by Baron de Meyer Photographs by Baron de Meyer............. . 52, 53, 54, 55, 50, 57, 58, 59 “The Sign of the Crooked Cross,” A Gripping Story on an Old, Old Theme, by Sir Philip Gibbs Illustrated by W. Smithson Broadhead... .........0000 00 cc cece 60, 61 ““New Models in Motor-Cars and Clothes”’ EE OF FOE CN ai 5a ok oh Wa Ses eee se deeded ds 64, 65 “G. W.,” A Racy Blend of Politics and Romance, by Irvin S. Cobb Sa TE 09 TF GRACE METI soos ok a ono s 60's cc vee nvcseesans 66, 67 The New Paris Hats Have a Suggestion of Drapery LODE OF BETS TEGCE AON. ooo a inn vin coc cctnnscccpicevssass 68, 69 “The House of Enchantments,” The Conclusion of a Fascinating Historical Romance, by E. Barrington Bn Ee re 70, 71 ‘Paris Displays the Basic Fabric of the Mode” Drawn by Reynaldo Luza..............0..005- .73, 79, 77, 78, 79, 82, 83 Drawn by Enid Engel. . re eauciessie uth a ieaae ae Enea 74,75 RPI MI 05. Ac oo scorns rds ae ed Fels Woke 80, 81 “The Green Silk Dress,” A Marvelous Record of the Patiently Awaited High Moment of a Woman’s Life, by Arthur Somers Roche Illustrated by Herbert Morton Stoops... 2... 6... cece cc eee eceees 84,85 ““A Modern House for a Modern Man,” Showing Interiors of Jean Patou’s Paris Home Drawings by Bernard B.de Monvel............00 0. ccc cece eens 86, 87 “Why Girls Go South,” A Record of Some Critical Moments in the Life of a Débutante, by Anita Loos i er ee 88, 89 “Harmer John,”’ Continuing the Story of a Man Who Valued Beauty Above Everything in Life, by Hugh Walpole ee eee ee oe 90, OI ““New Fabrics for the New Mode,”’ by Lucile Buchanan seca s see + QR, OS, C6, OF, 00, OF ‘On the Screen,”’ Continuing the Story of an Innocent Englishman in the Forest of Fontainebleau, by Robert Hichens DN FO FI aig 6 eK Bs Cbd cd eo cbee ba wewsceres 98, 99 Last Witmute Sietcmee TOU PATS. sw 5. o.oo ce ccc ceccccescetusesecsuvceees 100, IOI Hasner' 6 PAGae TANI SOP FIOS oon ne oso i iic in bis ceaicwdeeresovice news 102 NEXT MONTH: SPRING MILLINERY NUMBER Harper's Bazar is published monthly in the U. S. A. by the International Magazine Company, Inc., William Randolph Hearst, president; C. H. Hathaway, vice-president; Ray Long, vice-president; Joseph A. Moore, treasurer; Austin W. Clark, secretary, 119 West 4oth Street, New York City. Single Copies, 50 cents. Yearly subscription in United States and dependencies, $4.00. In Canada, $5.00. In foreign countries, $6.00. (All subscriptions are payable in advance and at the full price.) When you receive notice that your subscription has expired it is best to renew it at once, using the blank enclosed. When changing an address, give the old address as well as the new and allow five weeks for the first copy to reach you. Entered at the New York Post Office as second-class mail matter. C ’ \ } In Harper’s Bazar is fully protected by copyright and nothing that appears in it may be reprinted either wholly or in part without permission. opyright, 1926, by the International Magazine Company, Inc., (Harper's Bazar).

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R HARPER’S BAZAR CE reeetl i: 3 3 Pg

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5 i for FEBRUARY 1926 49 By MarRIF, QUEEN OF ROUMANIA MATCHES FOR PRINCESSES The “Mother-in-law of the Balkans’ Explains the NE should be cautious about the jokes one makes. I, myself, am incurably joky.... I cannot help seeing the funny side of things and people, even of myself, and sometimes in an un- guarded moment I will make a jest which travels further than I ever intended it to! Thus it was with the phrase “ Mother-in-law of the Balkans” which flashed round the world as a characterization of me. It bore with it a sort of facetious jibe—as though I were a keen, ambitious matchmaker with more thought of power than of my children’s happiness. Not one person in a hundred knew that I had myself coined the expres- sion. It happened in this wise: Once when I had been invited to a fancy-dress ball, I had no suitable costume and did not feel particularly inclined to spend a lot of money on a dress I should wear only once. So I invented one. I draped myself in a long robe of heavy white crépe de Chine with a veil of the same bound round my head, its ends hanging to the floor. To make this over-simple get-up look more regal, I put on a. very magnificent tiara which I inherited from my Russian grandmother, my mother’s mother. It is a round diadem of charac- teristic form, gold, set thickly with diamonds and giant sapphires. It spread halo-wise about my head, over the folds of white crépe. HE result was astoundingly effective, quite out of the common, and I carried a marvelous crystal flower with a long silver stalk, holding it like a scepter. Yes—it was a queenly and becoming costume. But what in the world did it mean? What did I represent? I might have been anything from “‘ La Adroit Handling She Advocates in Making Royal Marriages Vierge du Salut” to the ghost of some ancient empress or prophetess. Some one asked the fatal question—what was I? I laughed and answered, “‘I don’t know whether I am a nun—or the Mother-in-law of the Balkans. Yes; that’s what I am, and this crystal flower is the scepter I sway over all their heads!” The little episode having taken place soon after the marriage of my second daughter, ‘“‘ Mignon,” to King Alexandro of Jugo-Slavia, my eldest daughter Elisabeta being already Queen of Greece, the phrase spoken so lightly was taken up on the instant by everybody, especially by the journalists! ND how the name has stuck! Mother-in-law of the Balkans! The words I had said ina moment of high spirits met me wherever I went; stared at me from the printed page; fell from the lips of friends and sometimes from those not quite so friendly. Many false and vexing interpretations have been given them, which I have taken in good part, for it is only the true criticisms that wound deeply. The fact that I am called a matchmaker in the ordinary sense hurts me little, for it is not so. I have been called so many things that now I only smile, wasting no time explaining or discussing. It is no good! Yet, let me see. There are matchmakers and—matchmakers. The selfishly, cruelly ambi- tious ones and the legitimately ambitious ones. Every mother desires her children to marry well and happily, and as nearly as possible into their own world. Déclassé people are never very happy. It is as difficult to live down to a position as up to one. Youth does not often consider this. Young love so be-glamours and be-gilds the immediate hour that life beyond the honeymoon does not enter the picture. Love is such a precious thing that a mother longs to secure it for her children even as she tried to get it for herself. One may be disillusioned, yet one always believes the Supreme Love is to be found—whether by seeking or just by waiting one cannot tell. Is it then the part of a mother to try and bring disillusion into youth’s picture? To point out the material things that should be provided in case love flies away? Many hold to the belief that, since love does so often fly away after a few years of marriage, it is better to keep an eye on solider things—position, wealth, power. Should a mother, with a cool and calculating eye, try to help her children to “good” marriages in the worldly sense? Should she take a hand in her children’s marriages at all? Can she really help? Which is better: to advise and guide, or to stand aside and let the young ones buy their experience in their own way, never matter the price? MY* OWN marriage was of the old-fashioned ar- ranged sort. All moves were made for me. I, a seventeen-year-old girl, ardently romantic, eager for love, innocently believing in love that lasted, inspired, thrilled, and glorified, was placed advan- tageously. I was too young to think it out for myself, too unsophisticated to be anything but in love with love. How different the modern girl! Yet fundamentally we are all much alike. We all crave love, happiness, adventure, beauty, life. The only difference is that the (Concluded on page 140)

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HARPER’S BAZAR ‘BERNARD j BoDE MONVEL Lelong would send the traveler South in an ensemble of checked and plain beige frisca. The coat is straight with the new straightness of the sports type, with buttoned pockets. Spring tailleurs often have short coats, sometimes cut with roomy looseness, as in this suit from Yvonne Davidson in chestnut kasha duvetyn—its blouse made of a plaid scarf. Many Riviera cocts will lead a double life—Yvonne David- son makes one side of this one in putty kasha and the other in black “natté” or basket-weave faced with broadtail.

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for FEBRUARY 1926 The short cape appears on coats, suits, and frocks for spring. In the model sketched at the left Lelong has used leaf-green kasha for a coat and cape worn over a gray frock, sight unseen. — TT 1 | | ) i a2 | Ni C > Ii i Wl | l 1 comfortable traveling coat of English tweed is a useful . L , . cddition to any Riviera wardrobe. It should lap over well [> | WY | tC iy D fY . ° ° . . | i} H il] tit front and be ample enough to slip over any kind of suit. : i y . “ The Y teh model is in a tweed of green and beige tones, cut with Shoulder yoke, sleeves, and deep point in the back in one. It has the fur collar which this type keeps at any time of year.

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FEBRUARY 1926 By BARON DE — : Se DOUCET DEMESER A suit of black and white, worn by Madame Diehl, cont both colors and surfaces, satin and piqué. The blouse, with rasts high collar and double belt at the natural waist, recalls a fencing vest. A PARISIAN A Causerie on Ir Ts 18 rue Vancan, Paris. OW good of you to come! Delighted to see you!” is what one says to people of no ; consequence, not worthy of a formal in- vitation, in fact to people one asks to tea only. Tea par ties in Paris, however, as a smart form of enter- taining, are on the wane. They are no more con- sidered chic; yet, as courtesies have to be extended, entertaining becomes a problem. So this is the way I solved the knotty question: I asked no one, merely suggested to ‘ a hundred friends” to show them the one hurdred “best dresses” of the season, worn by some cf my smartest guests (who had consented to appear in their new clothes and act as mannequins). This time of the year being the off season, most people were at a loose end and delighted to come to my studio, in the rue de Savres, on the evening I suggested. ‘ NIGHT'S ENTER TAINMENT Smartness in Furnishings and Fashions in Which Explained that Netther Novelty Tradition Is Sufficient unto Itself Except for the studio, the accommodation is re- stricted, overcrowded, and not particularly beautiful. However, it has atmosphere, the atmosphere of a workshop. Lovely old French perse covers the walls of two small salons; one of them a design of faded blue hydrangeas, the other roses on gray. Frills and fringes finish off the panels, which are only tacked at the top and left hanging loose like valuable pieces of tapestry. There are good Aubusson rugs, but the furniture, though carefully selected, might be considered indifferent save for a set of chairs, a table, and a chest of drawers, entirely white, made of small squares of mother-of-pearl closely fitting into one another, producing an iridescent sur- face. The bric-a-brac, to use a French term, is amusant. A conversation with an early guest will illustrate it nor far better than my description. On entering, the lady had said, “‘What a heavenly room, what delightful atmosphere!” had then raised a diamond- rimmed eye-glass and inquired, with an entirely different voice, “‘But what on earth are these strange bits of color on your étagéres?”’ “Opaline, chére madame—vases of a glass paste made in France during the middle of the last cen- tury, much prized by connoisseurs.” “Never heard of it. I didn’t realize anything dating from such a dreadful period could be con- sidered beautiful. But what about this prismic glass in curious shapes? Is it beautiful, too?” “Possibly,” I replied, ““when seen through eyes sufficiently educated to distinguish between what has decorative value, and what is only valuable.” “‘And may I ask why you have blue and green

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HARPER’S BAZAR GS Wledern, Interice in Paris Madame J. SCzanne Talbaté’ Revidenee glass balls hanging from the ceiling? sidered to be of decorative value?” What was in the lady’s mind, evidently, was how could these men, supposed to have taste, surround themselves with such horrors, while what she said was—‘‘ My friend, Mrs. Gardner, went in for every- thing that was unique, but I never saw glass balls in her collection.” “How sad for Mrs. Gardner,” I replied, “for she was an intuitive artist. She would surely have enjoyed the balls and prized them at their exact value.” After this I pointed out to her my newly ac- quired furniture, composed entirely of mirrors, nar- Are they con- row slices or big slabs, made into chairs and tables. ““These,’’ I said, “‘ have been designed by Drian, who recently decorated an entire room in this way.” “Do you mean to say an artist like Drian cares for this kind of thing?” “Why, dear madame, you may be surprised to hear that a great many of us have tired of the supposedly beautiful things to be found in your or your friends’ drawing-rooms—generally genuine works of art, principally prized because of their intrinsic value. Perfection, especially in glass cases, is intensely dull. The inevitable reaction, there- fore, was bound to set in, and we learned to admire what you, so far, despise. The unsuspected and novel charm of certain objects belonging to the romantic period will, however, escape those whose cold and evaluating stare has frozen all charm and beauty out of them. Far from me not to admire your Boucher and your wonderful Fragonard, as well as your collection of Chinese porcelain, which, I am told, is worth a fortune. All of these are magnifi- cent, but who knows if my glass balls have not just as much decorative value as your famous set of famille verte?” At this point, fortunately, we were interrupted. Guests were arriving and the party was about to begin. It had been very arduous getting the various ladies to agree among themselves as to what each

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for FEBRUARY 1926 55 D LMIEVER + Nhu of them should wear. However, all’s well that ends well; the party was voted a big success and every one was delighted with the show. Most of my improvised mannequins appeared in evening gowns, some came in sports clothes, others In pajamas, and several recent brides arrived dressed in their wedding-gowns and looked quite lovely. I had very carefully selected every one of the ladies, and so many actually put in an appear- ance that I felt quite bewildered and can’t re- member them all. However, here is the description of those gowns which were particularly successful. The show opened with the beautiful Madame L., who appeared accompanied by her two sisters. Nlaricnete Theale CMoncioeur A. Tauchier Magnan &Y Recidence They wore Chanel evening gowns, dreams of ele- gance—mousseline de soie each one of them. One of them was in almond-green, flowing, fluttering, and vaporous in a truly novel way. One of the gowns was quite short on one side, reaching down to the ground on the other. The second was of silver-gray which looked like a cloud, and the third was black. Seeing these dresses accentuated my impression that even though beads are brilliant, rhinestones rich, and embroideries artistic, plain mousseline de soie perfect in cut, shape, and work- manship, worn with good bracelets, a long string of pearls, and a fresh flower au corsage, stands for supreme elegance and distinction. A young Englishwoman, recently married to a Frenchman, came in her picturesque wedding-gown, made by Jean Patou. The gown, of heaviest white satin, was flounced with lace, and had a deep berthe of the same lace on the bodice. Garlands of tiny orange-blossoms ran all around the neck-line, and at the top of each flounce. The head-dress was a quaint lace cap tied under the chin, combined with a flowing net veil edged with lace. The young woman carried an ivory prayer-book and an old-fashioned bouquet with a paper lace holder. To my mind, brides only really look like brides when wearing white satin. I dislike to see them in crépe de Chine (Continued on page 118)

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By SIR eyes of a man looking at her. angry, reproachful eyes which and blushed very deeply to see THE SIGN Staged im the Juliet—children of rival houses between whom there could be no open marriage—when Rita von Falckenstein and Max Hoffmann looked into each other's eyes and knew they loved each other. The hostility that divided them was older and deeper in its traditions than the enmity between the families of those medieval lovers. It was racial, * religious, and social—tremendous barriers between two human hearts eager for union. . . And it was in Vienna after the war. The first time that Rita von Falckenstein met the man who became her lover was on an autumn evening when she had finished her long day as a school teacher and was waiting for a tramcar to go home. It was a wet day and the rain was whipping the pavement outside the*big square building in which she had been giving lessons to tired children —some of them underfed and most of them hostile to the knowledge she was trying to dint into their wretched little heads from her text-book of geogra- phy. Her own head was aching. Several times she had thought of her own childhood before the war and the downfall of Austria, when she had been an elegant little creature, spoilt by an English governess, and petted by all the servants in a big house. She had never dreamed then that one day she would be earning a miserable wage by teaching slum children with unclean heads. All L WAS a tragedy, like that of Romeo and the dreams of her girlhood, so rose-tinted, had been “Tt was while Rita was laughing that she caught the They were astonished, so watchful of her.” OF A Gr ipping PHILIP she knew very well, THE Story on an Old, Ne W Illustrated by W. Smitruson dispelled by gray reality. Life was squalid now, and unromantic, and poverty stricken. She stood, holding up a flimsy frock, by the “halt” where the trams stopped to take up pas- sengers. But it was a hopeless situation. Tram after tram passed overcrowded with shop girls and factory workers, without a chance of a place. There was a queue of damp people waiting under umbrellas. They tried to push on, but the con- ductors shouted to them harshly: “Full up! Keep away there!”” She had left her waterproof at home, trusting a false gleam of early morning sunshine. Her frock was getting soaked and she had a hole in her right boot through which the water squelched. There were tears of vexation in her eyes as another tram passed, full up as usual. HEN somebody spoke to her. It was a man’s voice, kind and polite, over her left shoulder. **Won’t you stand under this umbrella?” She turned quickly and saw a young man with a waterproof coat tucked up under his chin and a felt hat pressed over his forehead. He was tall, with a serious, good-looking face, clean shaven, with dark eyes which looked into hers as he held his umbrella over her head, and said: ‘Allow me!... It’s a filthy night.” Rita’s mother had warned her solemnly about talking strangers. She had told her many times that the young men of Vienna after the war to HARPER’S BAZAR GIBBS CROOKED CROSS Old Theme Vienna BROADHEAD were dissolute and demoralized. A young girl like Rita going in the tramcars every day would have to be very careful. “Danke schin!” said Rita, with another glance at the tall young man. He looked harmless, and his umbrella would be a comfort. She stood there close to him for a few moments and by turning her head ever so little saw his face touched by the light of the street lamp. He had a delicate, finely-cut profile, she thought, and he looked serious and rather worried. “This is disgusting!”’ he said, as another tram passed laden with wet people. Then he laughed, as though he saw some humor in the situation, though Rita could not perceive it. “‘There’s a good meal waiting for me at home and I’m hungry after a day’s work.... I’m going to be luxurious and take a taxi. Can I put you down anywhere?” Rita hesitated with her answer. The thought of a taxi was extremely tempting, merely for the joy of riding in one, apart from the question of keeping dry. Only Schieber and rich Jews and fast girls could afford to ride in taxis in post-war Vienna. He seemed quite a serious young man. “T live at the end of the Rothenthurmstrasse,” she said doubtfully. “It’s quite out of your way, I’m afraid.” “‘On the contrary, I have to pass it. s¥99 the taxi! I'll stop

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FEBRUARY 1926 for ol “Tt was that ‘why not’ which seemed to madden him. not?’’’ said her father. ‘I cannot believe it, though you stand there and confess.’” “T’m afraid A little She stammered a few words shyly. I can’t offer to share it. I’m terribly poor. school teacher!” The young man laughed as though he saw another joke somewhere. “I’m not rich myself. A doctor. be glad to take you home.” A taxi-driver saw the wave of his umbrella and brought his machine alongside the curb, splashing up a big puddle. The queue waiting for their chance for a tramcar looked enviously at Rita and the young man they drove away so grandly. “Some of them will get pneumonia to-night,” said Rita’s new friend. “That will keep you busy,” she suggested. He explained that he. was always -busy. But I'll as He xa en: specialized in children’s ailments and there was ten times too much work to do. ‘“Even now half of them are undernourished or else suffering from the years of hunger. Rickets, scrofula, tuberculosis. Poor little brats!” He sighed as though he had a pitiful heart not hardened by professional work. N THE taxi she could only see his face—that finely-cut profile—as the street lamps gleamed upon it momentarily and then left them in darkness again. He was very good-looking, and she liked his voice. “Tt must be wonderful being a doctor,” said Rita. ‘It’s a life of devotion, especially among the poor.” “Hard work and no profit,” answered the man ta ERS EAE ee mee > coe a a A TR: UR AE OR ‘You dare to ask me “why lightly. Then he spoke more seriously. “‘I’m keen on the scientific side of it. I want to go in for research one day. Bacteriology is my dream. It’s the great adventure with endless possibilities.” ““Why don’t you begin?” asked Rita. “Too poor! I’ve got to drudge for a living first. Still there’s some compensation. I’m devoted to children.” She liked that devotion. children must be good and kind. children gave her sick headaches. hated them. He began to speak of his work in a children’s clinic, and then broke short abruptly. “T don’t know why I want to bore you like this! It’s absurd of me.” “I’m interested,” said A man who loved Her own school Sometimes she (Continued on page 128),

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62 (Middle, above) A coat that looks like a short coat and skirt in front but is all one piece in the back is made by Callot of very supple black pony. This Jenny coat in gray-beige kasha with fox fur illustrates the revival of the straight coat for all sorts of sports wear. HARPER’S BAZ A particularly well-cut black broad- cloth coat, with a slightly flaring silhouette, was worn with beige hat, gloves, and stockings and silver fox. (Left) At Longchamps was seen a short black caracul coat lined with fuchsia cloth and worn over a fuchsia- colored frock. R THE STRAIGHT COAT RIVALS THE FLARE ON THE PARIS BOULEVARDS

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yr FEBRUARY 1926 (Middle, above) Lelong is making smart flared coats in black taffeta trimmed with Hudson seal. The Reboux hat is soft black velours felt. Many of the popular black coats with beige fur were worn at Longchamps. Above, at the right, is “the”? Paquin coat of the season. At the races at Longchamps was seen an unusual coat in gray-beige with two diagonal pieces in the back. The collar is in cream and beige fur. (Left) Jenny has made a smart tailored fur coat of gazelle tied with brown velvet ribbon and worn over a kasha frock. 63 SMART COATS IN CLOTH AND FUR THAT WERE SEEN AT THE PARIS RACES

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me » %a¥ me maw it aa hy fs ma © ‘A There are many features about the new Marmon that make it especially suitable for women: the method of oiling the entire chassis by a touch of the foot, Lovejoy shock absorbers on four wheels (the type used by Rolls-Royce), and rear lights automatically switched on as the car goes into reverse. 1A RION The Premet dress shown at the left is of white crépe with yellow wool crochet and a white kasha coat; from Best. The second model is a silk jersey sweater and skirt striped yellow, green, and magenta; or the skirt, as in the French original, may be in yellow kasha. Jay-Thorpe. CADILLAC This new Cadillac is equipped with a special individual body by Fleetwood. Cars of this type, the enclosed drive sedan with a glass partition that may be opened or closed at will, are either chauffeur or owner-driven and have now the greatest degree of popular favor. The smartest clothes to-day are sports clothes. Even evening clothes are cut like sports clothes, in richer fabrics. This Chantal model, which will be much seen in the South, is of white pongee with bands of French knots made of brown string around the hips and wrists. Sports Shop. HARPER’S BAZAR

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for FEBRUARY 1926 PACKARD Brilliant and unusual color schemes have been a feature of recent cars. This stationary cabriolet is painted yellow with a triangular panel in bright green running down the hood from wind-shield to radiator; wheels and running- gear are green and green leather is used on the driver’s seat. ee eee A Vionnet coat of tan and brown tweed is made on an interesting new line, being considerably fuller above the hips than below and fitting very snugly around the hips. Sports coats of this type are exceedingly smart when worn with harmonizing dresses; from the Sports Shop for Women. ae L_ | ——S= SS —— mn STUTZ In a season when few of the new models are radically differ- ent from the old, the changes in the Stutz seem revolution- ary. The body is five inches nearer the ground; there is a worm drive rear axle and hydrostatic brakes; all the body styles are under the supervision of Brewster. A Chantal dress of pink flannel bound with tape in a deeper shade is made on the now classic jumper lines. It is very tight at the hips and has a skirt that flares by means of circular insets in the front only. Dresses of this type fill the Palm Beach day; from the Sports Shop for Women

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66 HARPER’S BAZAR By IrRvIN S. COBB .f(5 WV”? e) Oo “There was meaningness in Mrs. Riddle’s manner. Her husband talked along, suspecting nothing.”’ N a certain day the young governor—Gov. G. W. Blankenship—left the Executive Mansion and motored up to the State Penitentiary. As the car spun him north over good roads through the crisp morning air, he took stock of himself and of his past life and of his future prospects, nor had cause for disappointment or doubt regarding any one of these three. This was a fine large world—large yet cozy— and he gave it his unqualified endorsement while he rode along. He took the Penitentiary unawares. The warden was not expecting him. Nobody was—not even the warden’s pretty, amorous little wife. Of this, his first visit to the institution since his inaugura tion six months before, the governor meant to make a surprise visit. An announcement sent on ahead would have meant preparations for his arrival an official reception and a speeding-up of the machinery. His design was to see how the place looked in, as you might say, its week-day clothes. It looked pretty After a painstaking inspection he was bound to conclude that, for a prison, this prison came very near to being a model prison. The management was eflicient, that was plain to be seen. The discipline, so far as he might judge, was strict without being cruel. The climax to a very satisfactory forenoon came, when the warden at the end of the tour invited him to stay for luncheon. “Tt’ll just be a simple meal, Governor,” said Warden Riddle, “with nobody else there except Mrs. Riddle. But I’d mightily like to have you take pot-luck with us.” “Well, I believe I will do just that very thing,” said Governor Blankenship, heartily. Privately he good. “That is, if I’m not putting was much pleased. your household out on my account?” “Of course not,” stated Riddle. “T’'ll just chase a trusty across the road to tell the missis to put a third plate on the table—that’s all that’s neces- sary.” He spoke with the pride of a contented husband in a well-ordered home. “Then [ll get in my car and go find a barber shop,” said the governor, sliding the palm of his hand his chin. “I started up country so soon after breakfast this morning that I forgot to shave.” “No need for you to do that,” Riddle told him. “Don’t you remember seeing the little shop over back of the main building—not the big shop where the inmates are trimmed up, the little one where the staff have their barbering done. We’ve got a lifer over there who’s a wiz’ at his trade. I'll guarantee you'll get as good a shave from him as you ever had in your life, Governor.” So, escorted by the warden, Governor Blanken- ship recrossed the enclosure to a wing behind the infirmary. From the doorway of a small neat shop, properly equipped and spotlessly clean, the warden addressed the lone occupant, a young man in con- vict gray. “Shave this gentleman right away,”’ he ordered. “A good quick job.” “Yes, sir,” replied the prisoner. “You needn’t wait, Warden,” said the governor. “T’ll rejoin you in your office in a few minutes.” across HE warden accordingly departed, the barber closing the door behind him. The governor climbed into the chair and was tilted back. A crisp cloth was tucked about his collar, warm, soft suds A Racy Blend of Politics and Romance Illustrated by WaLLaceE MORGAN were applied to his face and deft fingers kneaded the soap and rubbed it in among the hair roots, then the razor began mowing with smooth, even strokes over the governor’s jowls—first one jowl, then the other. This much was done in a silence broken only by the gentle scraping sound of the steel against the bristles. It was the convict who spoke first, thereby violat- ingaprisonrule. He had finished with his subject’s jaws; the razor hovered above the Adam’s apple. “T know you,” he said coldly; “you’re the governor.” “Yes,” said His Excellency, “I am.” “Then you ought to recognize me, too,” continued the barber. ‘Take a look!” Slightly startled, Governor Blankenship blinked and peered upward into a face that was bent just above his own face. “No,” he said, “I don’t believe I remember you. Where did we ever meet before?” “In a courtroom,” said the prisoner, “in a courtroom at——,” he named the principal city of the State, which also was the city where the gover- nor held his citizenship. “You prosecuted me— you sent me here.” All at once his voice grew shaky with passion; his features, which until now he had held in a composed blank, became distorted—a twisted mask of hatred. Sudden apprehension stirred inside the young governor. He made as though to straighten up. A strong hand pressing on his breast kept him down, though. “Stay still!’ commanded the convict. “You haven’t got a chance. I locked that door there when the head-screw left. And don’t try to yell

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for FEBRUARY 1926 I can take that head of yours off Stay still and listen for help, either your shoulders at one swipe. to me.” As white under the patchings of lather as the lather was—yes, whiter—Governor Blankenship lay there, rigid with a great fear, and hearkened as his tormentor went on: “Probably you wouldn’t remember me. Why should you? I was just one of the poor stiffs you persecuted when you were district attorney, building up the record that landed you in the governor’s chair. ‘Blood Hound’ Blankenship what they called you. And how you worked to put me away! Well, you had your wish. Here I am, in for keeps. And here you are, helpless as a baby, and a sharp razor right Feel it, don’t you? I'll make —that’s against your neck. you feel it!” The stricken man felt it, pressing at his throat, fraying the skin, ready to slice downward into his The mere touch of it seemed to He strove to speak, but crawling flesh. paralyze his vocal cords. RLaAS ““Then probably she would be pleased in case—h’m—in case I should grant him a pardon.’”’ for the life of him—and his life was the stake, he realized that—he couldn’t get the words out. In a terrible relentless monotone the torturer went on: he seemed sorry for me when he was hanging the Sentence on me. And I don’t blame the jury, either, But you—what ‘you said about me, the Way you went at me on cross-examination, the aames you called me when you were summing up! “T don’t so much blame the judge almost I swore then that if ever I got a chance at you I’d fix you. And now I’ve got my chance—and I’ve got you right where I want you!” “‘Wait—for God’s sake, wait!” In a strangled frenzied gurgle the helpless man pumped forth the entreaty. “Why should I wait? They don’t have capital punishment any more in this State. All they can do is pile another life term on the one I’m already doing.”’ “But wait—oh, please wait! I do seem to remember you now. Maybe—maybe I was too stern. If I took your case under advisement—if I pardoned you—if—if—”’ He was begging so hard that he babbled. The pressure of that deadly thing at his throat was relaxed the least bit. “‘Now you're getting reasonable,”’ said the lifer. “T thought the thing I wanted most in the world was to kill you. But after four years here, liberty would be pretty sweet too. There’s one thing they’ve always said about you—that you keep your word. Swear you'll keep your trap shut about what’s happened in this shop to-day, and on top of that swear to me you'll turn me out of here, and you can go!” On these terms then the bargain was struck. The governor, having given his promise, had a good shave, once over, with witch-hazel for a lotion, and having somewhat mastered his jumping nerves and regained his customary dignity, went home with the warden for luncheon. 67 From the foot of the table, little Mrs. Riddle shot covert smiles at him—and soft languishing glances. There was meaningness in he1 manner, in her caressing voice. Her husband talked along, suspecting nothing. He thought—if he gave it a thought—that she was flattered at having the governor at her board. As for the governor, even in his shaken state he had a secret glowing within. S HE was leaving, he remarked in a casual tone to his host: “That pet barber of yours—Wyeth, I believe his nameis. He interested me—aroused my sympathy, in fact.” “My wife feels the same way about him,” said the warden. “But then, you know how women are. He’s young and well-mannered and she’s full of kindness for every human being.” “Then probably she’d be pleased in case—h’m— in case I should grant him a pardon?” Warden Riddle gave a start. “She might,” he said, ‘“‘but nobody else would. Governor, take it from me, that fellow’s bad all the way through. And the crime that landed him here —a cold-blooded, brutal murder—it was an atro- cious thing, utterly unprovoked. No mitigating circumstances whatsoever, just plain butchery. Governor, as your friend I beg you, don’t be swept off your feet by any rush of misguided sentimen- tality for such a wretch. To turn him loose would kill you politically. You're in line to be our next United States senator. Already they’re saying over the country that you’re Presidential timber. There’s no telling how high or how far you'll go if only you don’t make some fatal mistake. And this—this would be fatal. It would rouse the whole State against you. It would destroy you, not only with the party but with the people. You know what ruined your predecessor— he made too free a use of the pardoning power. Governor, if you let that man loose on society, you're wrecked.” That night, back at the Executive Mansion, the bachelor governor slept not a wink. For days and weeks he went about his duties in abstracted broodiness. Was ever a man strung between the horns of a worse dilemma? Warden Riddle had been right. To open the prison doors for so infamous a creature as Wyeth was, would be, damnation for all his ambitions. And Governor Blanken- ship was as ambitious as he was godly. And probably no more godly man ever lived. On the other hand, he had given his pledge to Wyeth. HERE was this about Governor Blankenship: he had been named for the father of his country—that man who could not tell a lie. And, wittingly, Governor Blankenship had never in all his blameless life told a lie either. To keep the faith with himself and the world, to wear truth like a badge shining upon his breast, had from boyhood been his dearest ideal. Off that course he never intentionally had departed. With him it was more than a code of ethics and more than a creed of personal conduct—it was the holiest of relig- ions. He unreservedly _ believed that one guilty falsehood—just one— would consign his soul to the bottom- most pit of perdition forever. Here was a real Sir Galahad, a perfect knight of perfect honor. So through these weeks he walked between two invisible but ever-present mentors. One of them, whose name was Expediency, constantly tempted him. “You passed your word under duress and in mortal fear,” Expedi- ency whispered in his ear. “Let that man rot in his cell. ”Tis his just desert.” But the other counselor, called Conscience, as repeatedly said to him: “You never told a lie. Can you tell one now?” In such grievous plight, he received a secret message, sent by underground from Wyeth. “I’m getting impatient,’’ was Wyeth’s word. “Are you, or are you not, going to come clean?” This enhanced his desperation. From sleepless- ness, from gnawing worry, (Concluded on page 126)

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_ omen "A Ne St _——- —— i ——1 J 7 Several versions of this peculiarly draped hat have been launched by Reboux this season. It is rather a head-dress than a hat, made of black felt, draped high in the back, and following the curve of the head in front. Coarse beige grosgrain ribbon makes a band and a flat bow behind. THE NEW PARIS HATS HAVE A SUGGESTION OF DRAPERY (Left) Reboux drapes soft wine-colored velours, that color we choose to call ‘‘ Chanel red,”’ into a high, rather pointed crown, dented in an easy-going “ battered”’ fashion. This hatis rather typical of the new mode. “ HARPER’S BAZAR This Agnés hat has no brim—is really a crown with a draped side-line that makes it extremely flattering. There is the mere suggestion of a tiny brim in front, just a little shadow-throwing curve in the felt. Hats on this page imported by SAKS—FIFTH AVENUE

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for FEBRUARY 1926 A SMART HAT IS NO LONGER SUBJECT TO ABSOLUTE RULES For several seasons this type of hat has not been considered smart. It was considered too mature, ‘dressy.’ Now hats like this ‘ and what is worse, one of felt from Reboux, hats that are half turban and half head-dress, have appeared. Round and round in circles, like a target, are sewn strips of gray felt, shading from light to dark. This disk of felt fits over the front of the crown of a gray felt Le Monnier hat. The brim is soft and flexible like a typical sports hat. Posed by GERTRUDE LAWRENCE Coats and costumes by i LUCIEN LELONG Hats on this page imported by bee ROLLEE (Left) Over the head and all of the hair this hat fits as closely as one’s own “shingle.” The front is of gray felt dotted with little rolls, and the back is of shining gray heckle feathers that curve out over the cheek, exactly like well-cut short hair. This is Le Monnier’s idea.

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BY EF. BARRINGTON THE The Conclusion By the that Sid’s first remark must inevitably be “I I OCCURRED to Mrs. Siddons at the moment and that there could be no told you so!” possible rejoinder—a position which was not likely to commend itself to her. It put a force into her accents to which Lawrence was a stranger so far as it concerned himself, and he sat cowed and drooping while she paced about the room in mingled anger and perplexity which really brought home his enormities to him for the first time. He pleaded, he protested, he entreated mercy for Maria, and heaped all the blame on himself—a position which she accepted outwardly, though thinking with dread of Maria’s ungoverned impulses. She was the more alarmed because emotion with the girl always meant inroads on her frail health, and her cough, her sleepless nights, were anxiety enough without any addition. At last, gathering herself together, she told him flatly that she neither could nor would mention such a madness to Mr. Siddons. She must take her own time, must consider, must watch the affair. She would sanction no engagement, his visits must be much less frequent, and so forth. “Maria will die if she doesn’t see me,”’ said the lover, leaning disconsolately against the window. “ And surely, madam, you who know how to sound every heart-string must know very well that many a man has been blind to his feelings before this. I can’t tell how any man can keep his brain clear in this enchanting house, with such beauty and genius ever before him that he knows not where to look or turn. Sally is an angel of beauty and goodness. There’s no man alive worthy of her. I'll run any despicable wretch through the heart who says other- wise. But Maria—all spirit and fire and passion! O madam, she’s your true daughter. Her life may not be a very long one—she feels, loves too deeply for her delicate body. O then I beseech you, I beseech you, let that life be a happy one—’ ND so forth, now with pleading lips and eyes, and urgent ejaculations and every expression that could appeal to the sentimentalism that he and the great actress shared. That was the worst of it: they understood one another’s temperament so perfectly that where another mother might have been frantic with rage and miscomprehension, Mrs. Siddons could make allowances which her husband, moving on a slower orbit, would never even remotely comprehend. To him Lawrence would always be an impertinent puppy who believed he might pick and choose at his pleasure—to his wife, a radiant young sun god who could scarcely be blamed because more dewdrops than one reflected his light back to him in a passion of rainbow colors. Who could be entirely surprised? It was the worse for Lawrence and herself and infinitely the worse for her daughters that she understood him so well. But even to herself she would not admit this. . ND how I am to tell Sally I don’t know!” she said despairingly, drooping in loveliest melan- choly in her chair. ‘“’Tis a miserable case for a mother. But happiness—quiet domestic happiness, such as my soul pants for, has never been my lot never will be!” Both Lawrence and Mrs. Siddons had convinced themselves that this was their inmost desire, yet both would have died of it ina month. It was noc without reason that Mr. Siddons later betook him- self to residence in Bath in search of the calm that his wife protested she desired beyond all earthly blessings. It was, however, a plant which could not flourish in Great Marlborough Street. Sensitive feelings, miscomprehensions, passionate and high- HOUSE OF ENCHANTMENTS of a Fascinating Historical Romance Author of **Glorious Apollo’ Illustrated by Henry Raleigh strung sentiments, all the tropic flowers of the emotions grew there in strong luxuriance, but peaceful domestic bliss needs common ground and less tumultuous vibrations of nervous sensibility, and some sense of humor is its necessary and vital air. Lawrence did not offer to relieve Mrs. Siddons of the task of making known to Sally the change in her prospects. “Tt will come more soothingly from her mother,” he said with deep feeling. It was only after he had gone away in the depths of dejection that she realized how slightly she had reproached him for his caprice. It was perhaps only in human nature that she should be the more severe in dealing with the other culprit—Maria—whom she found in her room leaning from the open window—a risk strictly forbidden in view of her cough—and gazing down the street after Lawrence with a strained passion that put the finish to her mother’s anxiety. SELESS to detail the scene which followed. “Cruel, unthinking girl!” was the mildest term applied to her, and not even as Volumnia had Mrs. Siddons displayed a more terrible maternal majesty than when she towered over the weeping Maria and reproached her with “ the desecrated gray hairs of a parent’s anguish.” She felt all she said at the moment, even to passion, but Maria,with so much of the same temperament, could, like Lawrence, comprehend that the very violence of these emotions set a bound to them, and was by no means hopeless, though she wept until her hands were shaking, her body convulsed with sobs, the doctor obliged to be summoned, and her mother, embracing her franti- cally, as terrified as she had been indignant. Sally, my heart’s darling,’ said Law- } rence. ‘Itwas a fright- ful error. It was you—always you.’” HARPER’S BAZAR —————

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ETE BP0 Ge i= a : — for FEBRUARY 1926 “Was ever love-lorn shepherdess under the hawthorn so interesting as Mrs. Pennington under that scrubbed oak, with not one atom of romance about her?” All this in the true Siddons manner on both sides. Mr. Siddons was merely informed that Maria was ill and went forth placidly to seek his midday repast elsewhere. There is much to be said for stupidity, especially in a house of enchantments like that in Great Marlborough Street. How else should nature preserve her balance? If every one could comprehend what is to be said on the other side, and see a hundred aspects of every subject instead of one fair and square, where would be consistency of opinion and steadiness of purpose? It is because the English are as phlegmatic as they are worthy that they have dominated the world, and Mr. Siddons was a typical Englishman. Conse- quently he dined in peace while Mrs. Siddons wept upon the sofa, remembering a hundred forcible remonstrances she should have addressed to Lawrence and had not. But when Sally returned the situation was pitiable. Maria, by the doctor’s orders, was in bed, and on no account to be agitated. Her eyes following her mother were lamps lit by fever. She could not control the trembling of her hands and all night her tolling cough had kept her awake. Her little head overweighted with black coils of hair, the damp curls silkily disheveled on her brow, her cheeks burning, her cough rending her, might have moved the heart of a stoic. Not a word had her mother uttered of what she should say to Sally, and though Maria dared not question with her lips, her eyes were an agony of suspense. ALLY arrived and, rushing to her bedside, kissed and caressed her, seeing nothing but the obvious, and then went up-stairs to unpack, Mrs. Siddons following. At the door a choked cry from Maria stopped her—‘‘Mamma?’’—that was all, but Mrs. Siddons could not resist it. She turned and stooped over her tenderly, pushing the curls off her brows. “My child, my poor unhappy erring child!” she said in a deep harmony like a goddess bending over a mortal. Then relapsing into humanity, “I'll do my best, Maria, but not a word, not a word to any one but me.” It is needless io teil how she broke the sad tidings to Sally. It must be done immediately because Lawrence, hearing of Maria’s illness, might easily come hurrying in to satisfy his anxious mind. She might have spared herself that anxiety. He judged it far better to keep away unti! the matter should have been opened up to Sally, feeling that he might but make matters worse for all by in- truding, and indeed his own mind was a storm- tossed sea. Sally received the wound very unlike Maria. Not a word, not a movement. She sat, a fair breathing statue, in her chair, with an expression of mute suffering that pierced her mother’s heart. She heard all the explanations, all the setting forth of Maria’s pitiably frail health, in the same silence. But her heart was not silent—it was a cave of wailing voices of desolation, of memo- ries cruel and sweet. It is hard on a girl to lose her heart’s delight to another, and when that other is a sister it must needs sting the wound with vinegar and salt. She endured as long as she could, then rose and spoke. (Continued on page 112)

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~! bho HARPER’S BAZAR || , | YVONNE DAVIDSON KASHA IS STILL A FAVORITE AMONG THE NEW SPRING WOOLENS Rodier’s “kasha flora,” one of the new patterned kashas in soft tones of brown and beige, has been made into a smart coat which is worn with a real sports hat in beige felt from Agnes. NII 5 tO. were emer semen

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FEBRUARY 1926 Two new spring sports frocks are made in the crinkly wool éponge which Meyer calls ‘“‘frisca.” This model shows a plain frisca variation woven like a honeycomb. and a OF THE JAN A sports frock of the two- piece type suitable for Southern wear is made of a rose-colored frisca, woven with a border in the fabric of three stripes of vary- ing width in plain rose. E REGNY PARIS DISPLAYS THE BASIC FABRIC MODE The Couturiers Are Adapting Silhouette to Fabric Instead Of Fabric to Silhouette, Using Straight Lines for Heavy and Flare for 2 rue de la Paix, Paris. ERY few people, I find, have much idea of the French fabric situation. They admire, buy and wear the lovely products in the form of models, but they do not realize in the least the leading réle in the pageant of the mode played by the materials that go to make their gowrs. The relation between the fabric manufacturers of France and the Parisian dressmakers is really as inter- dependent as that between the hen and the omelet. You cannot make omelets without breaking eggs, says the proverb; and just so the creators of fashion would be hard put to it to bring out their principal collections twice a year if the fabric makers did not toil and spin for months beforehand, getting ready the stuff that frocks are made of. The new materials, when at last they are ready, are not available to all the world’s wife. There are no shops where you can just go in and order so many yards, to ‘duplicate’ that charming little thing that you saw at the X opening, or that be- coming wrap that Mrs. Neighbor bought at Y’s. The fabric makers really reserve the first fruits of their looms for the Parisian couture, and you have to have credentials equal at least to those of a Bolshevist ambassador, before you can even see them, let alone purchase so much as a centimeter. As the fabrics created each season really do determine to a great extent our new clothes, they mean a great deal. Is it not significant that Chanel is again buying largely of Rodier’s crepella, and that Lelong has ordered Bianchini’s checked “jiponne,” a thin supple silk that we used to distinguish by the adjective summer? Isn’t it important that the By MARJORIE MOLYNElL X HowaARD Gray-blue is a new color proposed for spring in place of beige or gray. and skirt uses a mixture This suit of blouse in two shades. Light Matertals leading designers have ordered just as much chiffon as ever, and rather more lamé than is usual for the time of year? And remember, that no one in France who is not a Parisian dressmaker can ob- tain an inch of these marvels until the February collections have been shown. For one thing, there would not be enough to go round if they could. The fabrication of French materials of such superlative quality is long; and you realize why when you hear that they are all, with few exceptions, laboriously woven on hand-looms. Some of the more elaborately patterned ones can be produced at the rate of only a few inches a day. Such careful manufacture as this is necessarily slow, and it seems incredible that enough can be pro- duced by hand to supply the needs of even the ac- credited dressmakers, with their multitude of repeated orders. But France is still incredibly a nation of hand-workers, in spite of the economic upheaval of the war, which caused cheap things cheaply made to invade the sacred precincts of hand labor in many a field. A friend of mine drew my attention again to this not long ago when he went shopping in Paris for a prosaic nail brush. He said: “T passed a little window with brushes of all sorts set out for sale. I went in and found a blind man with bits of colored ribbon in the buttonhole of his greasy old coat. And I can’t tell you how I enjoyed buying my nail brush from him; a special design of his own, not better perhaps than any I had had before, but different. I thought how in my own home town I should (Continued on page 76)

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‘J 72h bare REDFERN Redfern has planned this charming frock in Ducharne’s printed crépe, one of the bordered materials which remain in all the collections. The ground is white with rose dots and the border shaded gray on white | | . s ‘ 4 e e * oe e@ e ot * - e e 4 t 2 HARPER’S BAZAR IMPORTANT POINTS ARE DOTS IN NEW SILKS FROM THE GREAT FRENCH HOUSES (Above, left) This shows the back of the same Redfern frock, suggested in another of Ducharne’s bordered materials. This print, in brown and tan, illustrates the tendency toward small, compact all-over patterns. Bianchini’s supple “jiponne” has \ been combined with printed crépe for } this smart ensemble. The dark Jf \ blue coat is worn over the printed frock, an arrangement of triangles and dots in red, blue, and black. BERNARD et CIE B & 9 Senta yal CMS

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~ on for FEBRUARY 1926

° ’ \ ,\ \ BRANDY 1) 2 <f /N LY Printed chiffons promise well for METAL LAMES ARE AS SPLENDID the South. Goupy has composed this charming frock in one of AND MORE NUMEROUS Bianchini’s loveliest printed chiffons —a flight of soap-bubbles in pastel NI EWE shades on various backgrounds. THAN EVER p (Right) One of the great successes A magnificent new lamé from Cou- i of the new Coudurier fabric col- durier in blue and pink and gold is , lection is this supple lamé, with its made into an evening wrap whose confetti motif in gold, black, and usual fur trimming is replaced for ruby red. Beer has made a wrap Southern wear by puffs of the from it that is a coat with a cape. \ velvet with which the wrap is lined.

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LANVIN Thin black is extremely smart for evening and will be very good for Southern wear. frock of black crépe satin veiled with tulle has triple black taffeta ruches and an old-rose bow. have dryly bought a factory product at a drug store, exactly the same probably whether my drug store had found itself in Florida or in Oshkosh.” If there is romance in a “different” nail brush, how much more in a “different” evening wrap? And yet, how can it be so very different, after all, if it is made of a material that every one knows already and can buy at any counter? So that is the reason for this description of the more unusual novelties shown to the Paris dressmakers them- selves only a short time before their February collec- tions are displayed. If it seems a little dry, console yourself with the thought that you are seeing them before any one else, except the designers and the fashion editors; and that there are many inter- This ested personages who are keenly envying us the privilege. Your first spring frocks will probably be in woolens; so let us begin with Rodier, a name to conjure with in both France and America. When you say Rodier you undoubtedly think “kasha,” the material with which this house is inseparably connected. This spring there are more kashas than ever, and the most exciting of them is finely plaited, plaited across the whole width of the goods, one hundred and thirty centimeters, so that it may be used like a plain material. Here is something that agrees immediately with the mid- season forecast of new fulness handled “on the straight,” in plaits or gathers, instead of invariably by circular cutting. So you begin to see how the HARPER’S BAZAR WORTH Another fragile black frock for the South is of chiffon, its uneven skirt in many panels edged with little scallops of gilt leather put on with round crystal beads to add a brilliant touch, fabric makers play into the hands of the designers of the mode. Another new kasha, a miracle of weaving, is called ‘“tchainickasha,” and shows a Persian pattern of hunting animals in shadowy colors clouded with beige. Here is a word that looks Icelandic, but that is because you do not under- stand the peculiar Rodier nomenclature. When you hold the key, these jawbreakers become as tame as Latin names of flower families to a botanist. The system, indeed, ismuch the same. Every name with “‘kasha” in it means that the material is woven from the “‘cashmir” wool of the Tibetan goat. And the awkward “‘tchainic” means that the pattern which you see veiled by the beige is first printed on the “‘chaine,” or warp, which is of colored silk, with “

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for FEBRUARY 1926 Three models from PATOU SS ee — “a } ; 4 A } 4 4 ~ a A lovely frock of gray crépe satin—a rosy gray just the color of a dove’s neck—uses the dull side of the satin to trim the shiny side. The skirt has oval inserts and there is a chemisette of white crépe oddly tied at the throat. the beige kasha woof threads woven in afterwards. The “t” is added just to make it harder. There is another new kasha called ‘‘kashatulla” which takes its name from the French “tulle” and— you guessed it—is woven in openwork like a fine net of soft wool. This is striped with plain bands, or checked, or bordered, or mixed with silk in the inimitable Rodier way. ‘Tussakasha” is woven like tussore—you see how simple it is? But do not be too proud, for the next is harder. ‘‘Kasha- toilécla”—how would that look in a crossword puzzle? To the initiated, this means a kasha woven like linen with one thread of silk to give it brilliancy; but I am not going to explain any further. All the new weaves—and these are just a few of them—come in neutral tones of beige, browns, grays, and cream, and in fairly eatable pastel colors, but also in dark shades, smoky blues, wine reds, and many greens. Some people think that the reds and blues are going eventually to clear out of the spring mode and leave the greens as favorites of the season. But only time and warmer weather will tell us that. Last year Rodier introduced a shaded kasha; this year, instcad of shading by dyeing, they grade the color by weaving, a much more subtle affair. Some of the new patterns are almost alarming; Baron de Meyer gives you a good idea of what they may be in the photograph of the coat by Yvonne Davidson which begins this article. This is called “‘kasha flora” —that’s an easy one. Continued popularity is (Continued on page 80) j AAR SDA Rs ST a A charming frock of leaf- green crépe has Patou’s characteristically full hem. The dull and shiny sides of rose-mauve crépe satin make a delightful frock. ~~ ~~

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HARPER’S BAZAR NOWITZKY MARY CHANTAL Here is something new—a _ lace sports frock! The blouse and plaited skirt are in champagne lace, with touches of dark blue chiffon. The coat is of dark blue chiffon lined with lace and belted with dark blue suéde. Mlle. Chantal invented chiffon sports clothes and does them beautifully. Here we have a cape and frock full of those little touches which make her models look like living drawings. Two tones of double yellow chiffon. Under this name the Grand Duchess Marie of Russia directs her ateliers of embroidery, which supply many French houses. Here is a new idea, a tortoise-shell frock of net, trimmed with huge roses of the same net. CHIFFON, LACE AND NET ARE USED INTERCHANGEABLY FOR SPORTS OR DANCING KITMIR

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for FEBRUARY 1926 79 ~ j i y = > Sach _ POIRET Poiret has made an interesting and Kasha in an unusual combination original ensemble in Rodier ma- terials—a plain dark green and one of the new patterned kashas. The patterned fabric makes a sweater of the new gray-blue, coral color, and light sage green makes this sports ensemble, with a big triple cravatte in the three shades carelessly tied and over it is a sleeveless green coat. under the chin in a big soft knot. This is how Lanvin uses the Rodier ir “burafyls”’ or bird's-eye weeds in brown shades. There is a wide ; leather belt and a smart polka-dot tie. Mark the tendency toward sports frocks in one piece instead of in two. BIG CRAVATTES ARE NEWER THAN SCARFS ON COATS AND FROCKS

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BLANCHOT HARPER’S BAZAR TALLIEN THE FIRST SPRING MILLINERY TO APPEAR IN PARIS (Left) A hat of fine white straw, trimmed with a large rose made of shaded rose feathers, is worn with a blouse Beer has designed of white crépe embroidered with a carnival of tiny figures stitched in black. (Right) A gray-blue felt has a tuft of grav-blue feathers over each ear. It is worn with a blouse from Martial and Armand of white crépe with fine cherry-blossom embroidery in black and white silk. Black grosgrain ribbon draped slightly and caught by a long motif of silver has a brim of black straw cloth. Beer has made the blouse of white crépe de Chine with diamonds of drawnwork on the pockets. predicted for all sorts of tweed, such as the weave shown in the Molyneux sketch on page seventy- three, in the new gray-blue which is proposed instead of the eternal beige for spring. This use of tweeds and mixtures indicates the maintenance of the ‘‘straight” feeling for sports and street ac- centuated in the mid-season collections. Flared tweed things really do not look well. A slight spread of the lines at the side, a plait or two in front, this is all that should be permitted. Lanvin shows you vividly what I mean in the model sketched by Luza on page seventy-nine. We may definitely conclude that, as the first fury for the vogue for flared things has died down, our spring things may be cut by the light of purer reason. Skirts will flare when the material allows it, but tailored things will keep that straight line which is the shortest distance between two points. No less an authority than O’Rossen declares that the day of flared tailored clothes is done as far as he is concerned. Rodier has made provision for sports in a host of tweed-like fabrics called ‘‘burafyls” or ‘‘ buranics.” Sometimes their bird’s-eye designs are picked out with threads of artificial silk. Some are woven in patterns, some are piain, many diagonal, one in shaded blocks set one on top of the other like a row of bricks. One called “‘burécla” (écla always means that there is silk in it somewhere) looks like a heavy tricot and will make excellent sports clothes. It is always a special pleasure to see the Rodier spring collections because of the lovely linens and cottons—exquisitely colored, lovingly embroidered, mingled with brilliant artificial silk—which make us long for really warm weather in order to make them into odd jackets, blouses, and colorful daytime frocks. The Rodiers themselves use them for table-cloths, and I am proud to say that I possess one. It is of cream linen of their own manufacture with a great oblong in the center made of blocks of embroidery, cream on cream, and all put together with buttercup yellow crocheting, which makes my table as gay as a field of daffodils. Then there are their printed and embroidered crépes, richly hued as tropical birds, showing inexplicable combinations of printing and embroidery, the one dependent on the other for the beauty of the whole, as the ancient Greeks used color to complete their sculpture. At the beginning of this article, you see two sports models, designed by Jane Régny, whose ideas never fail, in Meyer’s favorite spring material, ‘“frisca.” This fabric, introduced last spring, is rather like a

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FEBRUARY 1926 for A SIMPLE SKIRT MAKES ANY BLOUSE INTO A SPORTS FROCK A hat of draped fine black crocheted straw has a brim in three tones The blouse in white crépe Georgette from Martial of shaded felt. and Armand is almost covered with stitched bias bands of the crépe. JANE BLANCHOT wy Goupy is making little colored jackets in crépes and satins instead of blouses this spring. The béret worn with the jacket shown at the right is in colored felt incrusted with applications of fine straw. A béret in rose-beige straw cloth is draped on a high line with a beige velvet ribbon around the head. The blouse from Martial and Armand is of beige crépe de Chine with fine tucks and matching embroidery. fine wool éponge, and appears again in many adapta- tions, of which two are shown—a honeycomb weave, and a bordered material with three solid rose stripes on a ground of white and rose mixed. There is simply no end to the tricks that the Meyers have played with frisca this spring. It is hemstitched in checks and squares, and woven in stripes and plaids. It is made in long shaded strips, or the length is divided into two colors down the middle, one half cream and the other beige. Three tones are mixed together, when the result is called “glacé,” and when it is patterned with a raised design it is called “‘frisca fantasie.” It is ribbed, checked, plaided, striped with silk, and all this in two hundred and fifty different shades including greens like a forest of baby leaves. Last year Meyer introduced ordinary goats’ hair, and this year it is used for a raised gray design on a frisca foundation. There is a new material called “strillex,”’ for some good reason doubtless that I don’t know, which looks like a wool satin, the surface shaded with the natural gradation given by the use of undyed cashmir wool. Another novelty is called “tullina” that is slightly ribbed like knitting, with a reverse like net or tulle. This is for sports things, in lovely pastel shades. Herring-bone patterns and broken checks are the favorite designs for sports materials. And now I want to talk about the silks, and I wish I had a thesaurus handy in order to dig out some new adjectives to describe them. All the colors you ever saw in an orchid house or a collection of South American butterflies, with designs such as the Russian ballet never dreamed of in its palmiest pre-war days—all these and more are in the new collections. Yet with this enormous range of choice, the favorite motif of all the houses is the simple dot. But far from simple are the things they have done with it. Dots probably were never so compli- cated before, not even in the Morse version of a telegram from Trotzky. They are of all sizes, to begin with, from butter-plates to pin-pricks, and they are scattered and massed, in small geometric arrangements and in _ bold modernistic swirls. You see several of them illustrated on the fabric pages of this article. Bianchini turns his into soap-bubbles floating ethereally against a sky of fog-gray or midnight blue. Coudurier strews them like jewels over a lamé surface; Ducharne changes them to flattened flowers, reminiscent of the Japanese cherry-blossom, and throws a eee eee an epg 2 SAIN tee oe Se ee CAMILLE ROGER

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This magnificent cape begins with silver lamé shirred at the top. Madame Leroy has designed a splendid modern border in which ermine is used exactly like paint. The collar is black fox and the lining is white chiffon velvet. ART MODERN USES LIKE FUR PAINT them, stripped from the stem, in handfuls over a plain color-field. Besides the variations on a theme of dots, small all-over designs, conventional or floral, compete for favor with big naturalistic flowers, and with the new interpretation of the “modern” spirit, no longer purely geometric but adapted from objects of every day life, such as thumb prints, railroad signals, rows of the colored packets seeds are sent in, Citroen’s mammoth advertisement on the Eiffel Tower, rows of red matches with their yellow heads aligned, billiard cues in silver, snowflakes—anything and everything, especially things that seem totally unadapted to silk design. I particularly liked the variations of small checks, HARPER’S BAZAR FOURRURES MAX and think they have a real future in the spring mode. Plaids seem far less important with the exception of Bianchini’s plaid chiffons, the loveliest pastel version of the classic tartan that has ever been conceived. Coudurier is pushing stripes, follow- ing up the success of their blue-striped model on black which Chanel used for the skirt of one of her most successful sports models last year. All the houses are featuring bordered materials, so well adapted to the fluttering tunic. These designs are printed on crépes and chiffons, and quantities of plain Geor- g:ttes and evensilk voiles are being prepared in solid colors as well. So it is evident that the fabric makers are prepared for a continuance oi the floue gown, or frock with movement. e long-

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FEBRUARY 1926 fo r | CHERUITI drawn-out controversy between the net and the flou, or the straight and the flare as we call it, is far from being settled. I asked one of the leading creators how long he thought it was going on. His answer was, “‘Always—at least a limited always.” That is to say, he personally did not see the end of it. I think, however, that the use of each type will be more strictly defined. New models will be gen- erally improved by the limitation of flared lines to materials that really lend themselves to them. One of the striking notes of the mid-season was the tentative revival of taffeta. I observe no over- whelming proportion of it in the silk collections, though all of them contain examples of the supple weave which nowadays goes by this name. Taffeta requires quite another handling from chiffon or crépe, and, if successful, will undoubtedly modify the existing silhouette to its own uses. Another material figuring largely in the mid-season was silk alpaca, particularly in Coudurier’s smart version, both plain and with borders of beautifully blended colored stripes. Another new crisp material is Bianchini’s ‘“‘iranine,’’ something like an alpaca, which comes in rather light small Scotch plaids, is washable, and will make smart morning frocks on simple tailored lines. Bianchini is about the only house that is insisting on plaids, which is probably just as well, as they are easily overdone. A mental picture to shudder at in moments of depression is that of Balmoral under (Concluded on page 141) A wonderful evening coal is made by Madame Wormser in a new lamé which is like a silver Ottoman printed with a crushed-rose design. The fur is white fox and the collar ends in a cravatte of the lamé, tied or untied, as you like it. EVENING COATS WILL SHIMMER UNDER SOUTHERN STARS

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THE GREEN A Marvelous Record of the Patiently Awaited High Moment of a Woman's Life ARTHUR SOMERS SILK Illustrated by HerBeErtT MortTON Stoops EFORE her kisses grow perfunctory; before B patience has replaced eagerness in her eyes; while your children still adore you; the night of your election to the Presidency; as you sink the final putt for a seventy-five; before the sweet of triumph sours in the acid of defeat; and oh, above all, before age has taught you futility—these are the times to die. ‘ The echoes of May Irwin’s “New Bully” had just given way to the strains of ‘‘You’re Just a Volunteer,””’ when Ted Mackin met Mary Make- peace Fuller. Everybody said they were born for each other, one of those marriages made in Heaven. A hero of the recent war—he’d been with Teddy at San Juan—and a girl who was so sweet... . And beautiful, too! A complexion like marble stained with cherries; masses of hair of the exact shade of red of a rooster’s feathers, and deep grayish- green eyes. . . . Her figure—but back in the fall of ’98 they didn’t talk much about women’s figures, even though the bicycle had conclusively proved that the ladies were bipeds. ae SEE them together was to feast one’s eyes. He was tall, but she came to his forehead, and when they waltzed together or did the polka—do you remember? One-two-three, glide?—old folks looking on declared to goodness they had never seen such a couple in all their born days. Good families, too, when you knew the stock they’d come from. Mackins had played promi- nent parts in Massachusetts’ history for two hun- dred years, and the Fullers were as good as the Cabots or Lowells any day. A-course, they didn’t either of them have many rocks, but when you got your health you don’t need any more in this country of opportunity. HARPER’S BAZAR ROCHE DRESS There wasn’t much trouble in finding a job for a boy that’d gone up San Juan Hill with Teddy. And suppose the boy had caught a touch of fever, so that indoor work wasn’t so satisfactory, well, there were plenty other things to do. And, of course, neither Ted Mackin nor Mary Fuller had any doubts about the future. They just loved each other, and wasn’t that enough? From the moment when she’d seen him swinging along Beacon Street in the parade that followed the signing of peace with Spain, Mary had known she loved him. And, miracle of all miracles, she’d met the returned hero the very next afternoon at a party, and he’d proposed a bicycle ride. . . . The rest was Fate. HE roads through Brookline, Chestnut Hill, the winding Charles, where Ted kept a canoe; or, in the evening, the Rogers Brothers’ new play at the Hollis, or B. F. Keith’s vaudeville show. . . . ‘Marry in the evening, eh, Mary?” smiled Ted, as they rested one afternoon by the Reservoir. Their bicycles were leaning against an old paling fence. She colored faintly. “I know—it’s silly, but— Ted, we don’t know each other so very well, do we?” He drew her to him and kissed her gently. ‘‘ Well enough to love,” he told her. “Of course. But that doesn’t mean—Ted, are you going to laugh at me?” He shook his head. ‘‘ Never, my dear.” “Well, the reason I want to be married in the evening is because I want to wear a green silk eve- ning dress.” “T can’t think of anything so terrible about that wish,” he chaffed. But she didn’t smile. She was desperately serious, and the story tumbled from her curved lips. There was a painting at home—oh, Ted had never seen it, because it was torn and peeled and stood in the garret now—of an aunt of Mary’s; maybe a great-aunt. And she looked like Mary and she wore a green silk evening gown, and since Mary was a little girl she’d wanted such a gown and she’d never dreamed of touching Uncle Anderson Fuller’s legacy of five hundred dollars, but now that she was to be married. . . . Just think, she’d never had an evening dress! Not in all her life! Party dresses which had been good enough but not the ‘The gift of the Mackins—to under- stand. Big Ted flushed pain- fully. He, too, understood. Mary’s gallantry was without avail.”

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for FEBRUARY 1926 ‘The dress fitted. She colored faintly as she saw how low it was in front and back.” real thing and, of course, she wouldn’t dream of spending her own money for a trousseau unless her husband-to-be approved. . . . Her parents thought she was extravagant... . Ted clasped her in his arms. ‘I want to be mar- ried at night, my dear. And I’d simply refuse to marry any girl who didn’t wear a green silk evening gown.” You see, Ted Mackin had understanding. Being one of that old New England stock which has been pushed aside to make room for more vigorous new- comers, he sympathized with Mary, who was also of that stock. The Mackins and Fullers had plenty of traditions, but not much money. Their names and birth entitled them to know certain peo- ple, but what was the use of knowing people if you couldn’t afford to play around with them? Mary and he would have to live on the twenty- five dollars a week which Corry and Carpenter, commission merchants, paid Ted. He’d saved three hundred dollars which would start furnishing the little flat which he had rented. Sanity would dictate that no money be spent on evening gowns for years to come, but love isn’t sane. So he petted her and praised her and raved about the effect of green silk beneath her red hair. . . . A nice boy, Ted Mackin. It was to be a quiet wedding, and the honeymoon was to be a week-end trip to New York. Corry and Carpenter liked the big good-looking clerk with the excellent war record and, though it was a busy time of year, gladly gave him four days off. A group of Ted’s friends were giving the young couple a parlor suite . . . no newly married pair ever had a better start, it seemed. No money, but prospects, health, and—love. And two weeks before the wedding day Mary’s father died. He’d made good money, three thousand a year, but he hadn’t been thrifty and even the life insurance had lapsed. Mary’s mother had nothing. “‘ And the dressmaker was as sweet as could be,’ said Mary, a few days after the funeral. ‘I'd given her ten dollars on account, and she gave me back five and said that she could sell the dress to some one else. Because I certainly couldn’t afford a forty dollar dress now, and anyway, I have to go into mourning.” Ted, of course, did what you’d expect a Mackin to do. He invited Mary’s mother to live with them. Mary was married in a plain suit, and the couple postponed the honeymoon trip to some future date... . Mrs. Fuller outlived her husband only three months, and the simple funeral used up the last of Uncle Anderson’s legacy. Ted’s twenty-five a week hadn’t stretched (Continued on page 137) ’

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The walls covered with brown cloth, the double curtains of ivory taffeta, and the silver screen form a striking background for the black satin furniture in M. Patou’s salon. The figure at the right wears a Patou chiffon gown, with the décolletage low in the back and high in the front. The other two figures wear colored velvet gowns. & wr .* “i be gents a Care A , -- ie ws /ie P aa lege *y bills SS ~ Pi Ss | y HARPER’S BAZAR The bar in M. Patou’s perfectly appointed house is in cardinal red and black. The black marble floor makes a perfect foil for the cardinal lacquer and leather of the furniture, and small black lacquered chairs cut strikingly against the cardinal lacquer of the walls. Behind the bar is the traditional mirror ne se

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noent mn for FEBRUARY 1926 My ig "* at ie : oe ue * { 1 | , The studio walls ar: Fetes at ‘ ‘s » Pi bs dea! li = wena — peter i I a. - 4 7 = PRs : $5 “- a ee ee — Slat - Biz, Ree : tk hs a ee _s ois : ai ' we +8, 5 Aa oR nD wg SG een ey Seo ae 87 a =. Ht | ii 1} tage fit ie ‘Zs j ' 4 - Zeke wnat, * Se PR fly A | ve “ 4 Rel a a entirely lacquered in téte de négre and the room is lighted by a large gilded dome in the center. A MODERN HOUSE FOR A MODERN MAN Jean Patou Beleves Of His should be that he be “‘of his own time,” sur- rounded by decorations of his own period. I should not for a moment wish you to take me for a detractor of the past, that past which as a French- man and a descendant of Latins I profoundly admire. I simply wish to share with you the opinion which I have of the importance of the development of the arts of our epoch. First of all I should like to explain to you the exact significance that I give to the words “‘ Modern Art” when I employ them, because the unfortunate expression has been so abused that for many it has acquired a lot of meanings of doubtful taste and uncertain authenticity. To be modern does not mean to upset and revolutionize. So a modern style is not a style which forgets all tradition of the past and from day to day pretends to impose a new rule. To be modern is to have the thought, the tastes, and the instincts of the epoch in which one lives. A modern art is, therefore, an art which is adapted to the tastes and to the needs of its era. I’ SEEMS to me that the first wish of a man Almost all the stages of French art have been, each in its turn, modern epochs. In fact, that is what has constituted its vitality and its strength. The only ones which are exceptions to this rule are the two epochs which, from the point of view of production and from the point of view of general influence, have had but a feeble result. I mean the Empire and the Directoire epochs. These two epochs have never been modern because they never fulfilled needs and immediate demands. They have been the result of an imposed will—that of Bonaparte, that of Napoleon. It is this artificial side which constituted the weakness of these two styles and placed them below many other preceding epochs which were vigorous and strong. I believe that every one will admit the truth Drawings by BERNARD B. DE That a Man Should be Surrounded With Furnishings Co Own Time and So He Has Made for Himself a “Modern”? Interior of these findings, but I know I shall provoke smiles when I say that since the Empire we have had other vigorous epochs of very modern tendency. I refer to the Louis-Philippe style, and finally the contemporary effort in all forms of art. SIMPLY wish, in this little article, to make you understand the love I bear our present era, a sentiment which, after all, does not prevent my admiring all the beautiful periods of the past. Beautiful old objects or beautiful old furniture, when they are real (which is rare), are museum pieces. They should be utilized as objects of art for the education of future workers, but they should not be used. One should not believe—and I hope the drawings of Boutet de Monvel will make you understand it— that to love the modern is to be modern-style or impressionistic. Decorators like Siie, sculptors like Maillet, Despieu, Bourdelle, or painters like Dufréne, de Segonzac, Derain, who represent the best of our epoch, are neither wild men nor Cubists; they are classical just as much as they are modern, in the good meaning of the word. A beautiful epoch is one in which each thing has its place, in which each element contributes to the formation of a very homogeneous whole. To- day we are in an essentially modern epoch. We are witnessing a renascence, and because of this, harmony is not yet complete among the vari- ous parts of the society in which we live where, in consequence of new inventions, certain elements have developed faster than others. Furthermore, we have been used for some time past to living in past styles, and fashion leads us sometimes from Louis XIV. to Louis XVI., sometimes from the Empire to the Directoire. We are not really at ease and we do not feel completely at home except in the midst of modern machinery. This latter has been perfected to the MOoONVEL point of attaining real beauty in which the style of the epoch asserts itself—beauty, on the other hand, always in formation and in evolution, but beauty just the same. Who among us is not sensitive to the continuous lines, the balance, in the models of beautiful automobile coachmaking? There is no object which possesses a graceful sweep more obvious than that of a racing boat in which each outline is minutely studied and calculated so as to form a flexible whole. The eye follows these forms with pleasure and finds therein even a certain volup- tuousness. HIS quality may be found in the forms of the furniture of the seventeenth century which are voluptuous, half human, like those bodies of chests of drawers, those legs of easy-chairs and tables. Well, this furniture, which every one admires, was in perfect harmony with the machinery which at that epoch corresponded to our automobiles and to our ships. The Louis XIV. easy-chair and car- riage are exactly of the same family, same architec- ture, same sculpture, and Puget carved the carya- tides of the Hotel de Ville of Toulon just as well as he did the prow of a vessel. At that epoch they lived in a perfectly harmonious sphere, finding in themselves and in their surroundings the elements of everything required in those days—everywhere the same amplitude, the same luxurious ornamenta- tion. The trimmings and the jabots of the costumes harmenized with the sculptures and foilage of the architecture. That is what we should aim at when we attend to our house. Let us make it, as far as our means permit, in harmony with our life, so different from the life of other days. May our furniture, our cloth- ing, the machinery which we use, be quite of the same family. It is thus that we shall build ourselves a personal home, representative of our epoch, but also of our minds.

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By ANITA WHY GIRLS GO SOUTH A Record of Some Critical Moments in the Life of a Débutante Drawings b OCIETY NOTE: “One of the favorite sports in Palm Beach these hectic days (and nights) is betting on the outcome of the many ac- tivities of the Divine Judy Revell. Of course, it was a foregone conclusion that the cinema would make a desperate bid for her, and Judy has capitulated to the extent of lending her beauty and talent to an elaborate production which is now being fourné, as they say in France. But wherever Judy is, a certain little god named ‘Cupid’ is pretty sure to step in and disarrange the best laid plans, and so matters complicate themselves. For a while, it looked as if a gentleman from the Argentine might be the favored suitor, but Judy, of late, has been seen many times in company of none other than our greatest matrimonial prize—the Valentine heir. However, even this may be no indication of the way the wind blows, for Judy is nothing if not eclectic. and is seen quite as often with Count

Loos Ratpepn BarRTOoN

“*T’'m through!’ said Winnie g Swazy, who has little wealth, but important listing in the Almanac de Gotha. What will Judy’s future be—Art, Millions, or a Title?” All this sounds great, but it is too much like a real- estate prospectus to be convincing. Any one reading it would think that Society is a beautiful garden where Judy Revell’s only problem is to decide which flower to pick—whereas, the only garden comparable to Society in these days is Madison Square Garden during a lively bout, and Judy, instead of picking a beautiful lily, is much more likely to find herself up against a good puck in the nose. As to her choice of ‘‘Art, Millions, or a Title”— well, that matter, at this very moment, is being thoroughly gone into at a tea, given in her honor at the Palm Beach studio of Damon Giles and Spottis- wood Irvine, interior decorators. The studio is a reproduction of a Spanish cloister of the twelfth “ Enrico Cadiz won his way by hard work, starting his career by crashing débutante parties.”

HARPER’S BAZAR NY <I Aine ‘You will never learn to understand mel’” century, but Damon and Spottiswood are not strictly in the period, being reproductions of nothing that has ever existed on earth before. The spirit of the South has run rampant through their wardrobe. Spottiswood has restrained himself sufficiently to keep to the mauves and purples, but Damon has broken right out into the yellows and reds. The room is lit by fading daylight, filtered through old stained-glass windows, picturing some of the early Christian martyrs. The guests are lit by several rounds of bootleg Bacardi, filtered through a cock- tail shaker, and some of them are probably going to be martyrs before the season is over. Damon and Spottiswood are talking to a girl friend, who wears the same model collar (size 1414) as her hosts, but whose necktie, by way of contrast, is much more conservative in coloring. Her name is Georgie Wilkes, and the newspapers were full of her at the time she renounced beaus and a butterfly life in Society, to go in for settlement work and the Drama. She organized the Toolchest Players in a stable over on West Twelfth Street, and started her task of rescuing neighbors from the vile atmosphere of the open streets, and initiating them into that of the stable and strong sex drama. The three are discussing Judy. Georgie believes that she has talent, while Damon is all for her marrying that great prize, Winnfield Valentine, who is paying her such marked attention. Winnfield is also present, so the truth may as well be told about him. He is thirty-four years of age and the only unmarried male left in one of the oldest and wealthiest families in America. He was edu- cated at the best school for defectives in Connecti- cut, and graduated at the very head of his class. To-day he is unhappy, because he didn’t want to come to the party, and only the fact that Judy is expected was a strong enough lure to drag him away from a new toy electric train that had just arrived from New York. He has found some solace, how- ever, in bringing along an imitation fly, which he has pinned on one coat lapel, the notion being to fool the public into a futile attempt to brush it away. He also has a spool of thread in one pocket, the end of which has been pulled through the cloth of his sleeve in such a manner that any one trying to pick it off will keep right on unwinding. But fate is unkind, for nobody bites, because his general get-up is so negligée that a piece of thread or a fly more or less on Winnfield would pass unnoticed anywhere. He is dolefully dallying with a cup of tea. He can’t drink cocktails, because liquor gives him a rash. Winnfield, although a great catch, has not yet fully come into his own, because his father still controls the family fortune, and, being a canny old soul, he hangs onto it. However, Winnfield is the recipient of a fairly good income derived from the fortune left him by his mother, which she acquired

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‘od ¥ AD for FEBRUARY 1926 “* Both Count Swazy and Winnfield make a dash for Judy’s side, but Wealth wins out over Nobility.” in an extraordinary manner. It seems that when Winnfield was eighteen, the old man, who was in- ordinately vain of his reputation for virility, looked his son over one day and offered his wife a million dollars in her own name if she would assure him that nineteen years before she had been unfaithful. Winnfield’s mother had not been unfaithful, which any one could prove who had seen her photograph taken at that period, before medical science had succeeded in harnessing buck teeth. But Mr. Valentine said that the mere empty words would reestablish his morale. So Mrs. Valentine wrote them out, and received the first real money she had ever been able to pry from the old man. From this time on, there had developed a better feeling in the little family, especially between father and son, which in late years has developed to the point where Father can almost endure him. Consequently, since there are no other heirs in this branch of the family, Winnfield has assumed the importance of a great catch. Also present at the party awaiting the arrival of our heroine, is Count Swazy, scion of one of the noblest houses in Hungary. He is a handsome young giant, an expert at polo, tennis, and all sports, except that, having been brought up on Hungarian Tokay, any American deb can out-drink him on Scotch. He is a specialist in good manners and the knowledge of when, where, and how to do the right thing. If Europe were not in a jumble, some wealthy European house would have been happy to follow the old established custom in practise 89 among civilized families on the other side, and marry off a daughter to Count Swazy, settling an income on the two of them. Count Swazy could take his wife into the smartest homes of Europe, teach her how to spend her money charmingly, and point out to her the difference between a Greco of the middle period and acoco-cola lithograph. However, his estates are in impover- ished Hungary, his money is in kronen, and every wealthy father in America is living in terror lest daughter get more plastered than usual some night, consent to become his Countess, and drag a fine old American name in the mire. Count Swazy arrived only recently. He hasn’t learned whether Judy Revell has money back of her or not, but the Count (Continued on page 122)

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By LA The

Above Everything in Life

Illustrated by T. D. Sxipmore PARTS: NTO our town, an old cathedral town in l southern England, on a December night in the year 1906, came Hjalmar Johanson to find a lodging place in the home of Mrs. Penethen. Johanson’s boyishness and _straightforwardness made him liked at once in the Penethen house, and soon most of the town was on the way to yielding to his friendly attraction, one of his firmest friends being the Rev. Thomas Longstaffe, the jolly, kind-hearted rector of St. Paul’s. He gave an eager loyalty to the beauty and grandeur of the cathedral, unconscious of the gossip and self-seeking and all the jarring ugliness of the network of cathedral politics that filled the little town. Johanson carried within himself a singularly pure and intense love of beauty. He wished that the people of Polchester might be more beautiful, stronger, lovelier, and happier than they were, and to this end, as a small be- ginning, he started a gymnasium. He wished for some beauty in the town that would demand still more, and so, little by little, per- haps to bring beauty and light through all of England. A young man with a vision he was. With childlike simplicity Har- mer John, as the whole town called him, responded to the beauty of the vain and selfish elder daughter of Mrs. Penethen; and before long they were en- gaged, Maude yielding at first merely through personal vanity and the desires of the moment. But although she was incapable of appreciating the fine, true worth of the man, she did give herself over to a consuming love for him. And the very submission to another personality, for the first time in her life, changed RESUME OF THE PRECEDING HARPER’S BAZAR HUGH WALPOLE MER JOHN Story of a Man Who Valued Beauty Maude Penethen; her very nature seemed softened and made more lovely. As for Harmer John— it used to frighten Mrs. Penethen sometimes, the way he looked at Maude, with his whole soul in his eyes. Johanson’s work progressed rapidly, and his ideals seemed at last to be bearing fruit—at least as far as the physical well-being of his fellow- townsmen was concerned. He had moods of being exultant, joyous with the very beauty of living; and at other times he was depressed by vague forebodings. His friend, Tom, was going to have some trouble among his narrow-minded parishioners, now that his daughter, Mary, had returned home bringing her fatherless young son with her. But Harmer John would stand by him, of course. Johanson had few enemies, but almost from the first of his coming to Polchester he had con- ceived an instinctive hatred for Samuel Hogge. Vain, unscrupulous, with a certain heavy clever- ness, this man had gradually acquired important property in the town, and had nosed his way into business relationships with almost every one of consequence. One day Harmer John met him down in the Seatown slums. He knew Hogge to be largely responsible for their terrible condition, but his stinging words had little effect upon Sam Hogge, who only warned him against mixing in affairs not his own. ParRT FIveE “HE brotherhood of man might quickly be a A realized happiness were it not for the soil that divides us. In spite of the timorous flatteries poured down upon the unbending head of Mother Earth by apprehensive worshipers, the soil divides. We are standing together, shoulder by shoulder, the view before us superb, the senti- ment in our hearts warm and comforting, when < sudden fissure at our feet, one of us tumbles in the other hurries to safety. When Mrs. Bond came to live in our town she came with the most amiable intentions. She was a most amiable woman, amiable to herself, amiable to others. With the double object of being kind to herself and very friendly to every one else, she settled down among us. She chose her home wisely. Her means were small. She was a widow and had three sons—Horace, Wellesley, and Joseph—to educate. In a larger town she might have slipped out of general] notice: in the country she would not have seen enough of her fellow human beings whom she adored: she must be in some place where Horace, Wellesley, and Joseph could be educated ade- quately but economically. It followed that in no time at all Mrs. Bond

“His love for her went far beyond these em- braces that were only the feeble signs of its pres- ence, deep into some dark underworld of longing.”

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eT ee en Se net eae A le nan for FEBRUARY ED SHIDM ERE! “Now, wasn’t that splendid? was the social leader of our town. She recognized the position and most graciously accepted it. Her house (near the bottom of Orange Street just before you come to the river) was tiny and her means, of course, ridiculously small. (Had she not three growing sons to educate and were not investments always descending, and could you expect Mr. Bond, who had had money in oil, to leave very much?) We never expected more than a cup of te2 or a sandwich in the evening as enter- tainment; nevertheless her little dinner parties were charining, and it was she who introduced into our town the fashion of reducing dinners to three courses, so much healthier for all of us. (As every one knows the custom is now universal.) In a surprisingly short time Mrs. Bond knew every one in our town and the private circum- stances of every one. This last was made easier for her by the willing cooperation and help of her three sons. Horace was sixteen years of age, Wellesley thirteen, and Joseph eleven. They were fat, pale-faced boys, curiously like one another, and not very popular at the school, I believe. But they were day-boys and it is always difficult for day-boys to be popular at a school that consists mainly of boarders. Undoubtedly they were very useful in bringing home social news to their mother whom they loved dearly. They picked up so much that was interesting from the other day-boys, and if they didn’t actually pick things up they invented them, which was almost as good. They had very polite manners and would sit for hours in a room quietly, just noticing things—so quietly, indeed, that you forgot ‘altogether they were there, which forgetfulness was sometimes unfortunate in its results. Mrs. Bond adored her boys. She called them her three jewels. They were all, she said, that she had now to live for. F YOU wished at any time to discover just what it was that was occupying the Polchester mind, all that you had to do was to drop in at one of Mrs. Bond’s delicious little tea parties. Here you were most truly breathing ‘“‘The Upper Air.” Had you dropped in just now at one of Mrs. Bond’s tea parties you would have discovered at Wasn’t that the very thing? How clever of Canon Ronder to have thought of it.” once that Harmer John was the center of the town’s observation. And you would have discovered another thing—that every one loved him. He had taken the town’s fancy and when any one takes our town’s fancy we are generous indeed. He took our fancy the more securely because he took it gradually. At first there had been the sight of him—his tall strong figure, his jolly friendly countenance; then rumors of his personality, his kindliness, simplicity, love for our town; then a gradual interest in the work that he was doing. Gymnastics, health, vigor, and strength; then the recognition of his social acceptance, giving Ronder massage, taken up by the school; then real knowl- edge of the man himself; almost every one met him. Because he was a foreigner and “‘different,’’ room could be made for him socially in every kind of way; then his engagement to a girl of our town, his happiness at that and our happiness at seeing him happy (because truly at heart we wanted nothing but to see every one happy). And then, finally, the creation of this legend, the first of the Harmer John legends. (It will be seen afterwards how many there have been and even until this day...) HIS was the Viking Legend. Straight from the icy North he had come, clean and straight and strong like a sapling from the Northern frost. . . . And so on. And so on. The point was that he should not be seen by any of us any longer as a human being but as a romantic illustration to some almost forgotten fairy-tale. Not quite forgotten. He brought back with him our childhood again, those delightiul days when, at our mother’s knee, we sat before a roaring fire. . In Mrs. Bond’s little orange drawing-room Julia Preston, gazing in front of her, balancing her tea- cup on the thinnest bone of her very thin knee, whispered in reminiscent murmur: “There was that story of Hans Andersen’s, that lovely story, about the forest and the man who cut down the trees. Oh, don’t you remember, Beatrice?” (to Mrs. Hammersley) “‘I can’t remember it precisely, but I know there was a forest and that splendid man. ... When I saw him coming up the High Street this morning swinging along in that fine way—”’ ‘“You’re too romantic for anything, Julia dear,” Mrs. Bond interrupted. ‘The point really is that he is exactly what the town wants. So long as he doesn’t interfere with anything that any one else is doing—” “Ts it true,” asked Beatrice Hammersley, “‘that he’s a close friend of Mary Longstaffe’s? That’s a pity if it’s true. I haven’t heard it on any good authority, only somebody said . . .” “There,” broke in Mrs. Bond, standing up in her indignation and addressing them all. ‘‘Isn’t that exactly like this place? If there’s one thing that I detest it’s scandal. Why need we be forever running others down and speaking of them un- charitably? Oh, I don’t mean you, Beatrice dear. I’m sure a warmer hearted woman never existed. But this is just another instance. Why, Mr. Longstafie was the first friend he made in the place! It’s most natural he should know the daughter. I don’t think it odd that he should have been there to meet her the first afternoon she arrived.” ‘Was he there when she arrived?” Julia Preston and Mrs. Hammersley cried in chorus. “Yes, I was there myself,” Mrs. Bond rather reluctantly admitted. ‘“I’d no idea the girl was arriving just then. Went in quite by chance—and who should be there but the girl, her small boy, her father, and Johnson. All most domestic. There are many people who would think from that that he was being admitted much too closely into the bosom of the family. It doesn’t seem so to me. He’s engaged to that nice pretty girl at the place where he lodges and any one who says to me that there’s anything between him and Mary Long- staffle . ..” “All the same,” Mrs. Hammersley broke in, it does seem a pity. That nasty girl and that splendid man, especially as he’s engaged. I think that some one ought to say something to him.”’ ““ RS. HAMMERSLEY did not really mean that Mary Longstaffe was a “‘nasty”’ girl. She was a large, red-faced woman brimming over with good nature, but she (Continued on page 104)

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NE W ‘TABRICS FOR HARPER’S BAZAR THE NEW MODE Spring Fabrics, Both French and American, Have a New Delicacy Quite Different from Last Season's Virility By LuciILe ANY of the New York designers have a definite M appreciation of French fabrics. Their collections invariably show an equal use of both French and the best of the American fabrics. It is interesting to see the American handling of French fabrics, and the fabrics from the French collections that are favorites in America compared to the French fabrics that Paris likes best. Whenever the French fabric houses present a fabric with an idea, not one with a merely abstract design, but one that tells an amusing story in its pattern, the New York designer ap- proaches it with respect and caution. He makes a little “number” of it that gives a fillip to his otherwise ‘‘ wearable” collection, but he never seriously regards it as a fabric that is part of the mode. Abstract geometric designs and floral de- signs he embodies seriously in his collections and handles with a certain undoubted understanding. Each season one may look for the most gorgeous of the Bianchini and Coudurier, and the most interesting Rodier and Meyer fabrics in the collec- tions of several of the best New York houses. This season the Bianchini lamé tissues have been used with a free and lavish hand by several of the New York designers. Lamé fabrics have not been regarded favorably for Southern and summer wear in America; but gradually the lamé fabrics have taken on the consistency and character practically of SsUCHANAN crépe and chiffon, and are used with an engaging unconcern for their gorgeousness. Evening wraps of the ‘“‘sports”’ type are made of them—like the wrap shown on the opposite page and tailored two-piece evening frocks of equal simplicity. The American silk manufacturers have produced for spring and summer collections that are characterized by surprising delicacy of design—largely by small all-over motifs that pattern the fabric closely. Cheney presents chiffons printed with ‘‘ethereal geometrics,”’ designs that are half geometric and half delicate floral motifs, surprisingly interesting and unusual. Small Watteau designs in color on tinted or black backgrounds are printed on raw silk, and are extraordinarily smart. Other characteristic designs from Cheney—designs that make very smart “little” frocks—are inspired by stained-glass windows, formally arranged and very definite in outline. The house of Mallinson shows a line that is extremely colorful in a delicate high-keyed way. This house, too, shows printed fabrics with a geometric influence. It is the result of the wave of “‘modern”’ art; but these are not the violent designs shown in the summer and autumn. These original designs have become rationalized into rather fine arrangements of abstract geometric designs, combined with conventionalized floral motifs. onan een atl ch Aaa igh Aa 2 flan

Page 49

for FEBRUARY 1926 BIANCHINI FERIER 93 PRESENTS A DISTINGUISHED AND VARIED COLLECTION OF SILKS FOR SPRING AND SUMMER \ A (Upper left) A Bianchini crépe distinguished by an arrangement of small designs of flowers and leaves arranged formally, covering the entire surface, in delicate color on tinted crépe.

Wrap from JAYVY-THORPE (Middle, above) This is called “The Pope's Money”, patterned with motifs made from the strange plant of that name. Ground of colored chiffon; design in color, outlined with metal, (Lower left) Fine fernlike motifs cover the entire surface of this printed crépe. In inter- esting color, such as black, patterned in yellow and pimento red, and white, with blue and cerise.

= > *' Ke bt we fa * a. a ost AY Pe fe * ™~, | 2 yg a ‘, ~ “, ‘ “4 ‘ . oe * We » “YW + { 4 , i Uy { Var M7 y ae ws om, i, ‘, = . é > ? . 4 act, “ ‘ Ae & a Pn, aw ‘ \ r : ? M a” as hs > . 7 X : hee j , A A cs € J A I ae 5. oss jae ; t , sueeen f 4 Lf t pas ++ z + “ + + pone z + = + ‘<ReSusmes t ‘wes 4 T T T x +) ttt ; { + i Patt +H 4 SUuveseusestasens x (Secseamemeeeneee t Ba J. 4 ++ ae ea) tht eens & seaseane me pom 4 a 14 — = a. eee iL 4 ‘. 4. a Seems Pe 44. amt eee +441 saat n eneueas ioseenee i tt seows 4. eueer 4 aoe cot

(Middle) Lamé tissues are extremely important in the Bianchini collection. The smart Euro- pean woman likes to wear them in summer as well as in winter—and they are very smart this season. The fabric shown in the middle is a gorgeous soft lamé tissue with a black back- ground shot with gold threads-and a large floral design of white and gold. The wrap is of lamé tissue, clear blue, with a design brocaded on it in silver. Collar and cuffs of ermine. (Upper right) Chiffon is printed in interlacing lines that graduate in color from light to dark, and produce a border on the fabric. Here it is shown in light rose, shading to darkest rose. Bianchini shows many plaids in numberless combinations of checks and stripes, and all oj them extremely interesting and smart. The one at the bottom of the sketch is of silk alpaca. (Lower right) When Bianchini employs large designs this season, they usually cover the fabric in formal order. This is white, royal blue, and black crépe Georgette.

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(Right, top) White chiffon, printed in vermilion and cerise. This ar- rangement of geometric curves and semi-floral motifs is characteristic of the Mallinson fabrics this spring. (Below, and left of top design) Mal- linson is making a brocaded crépe fabric that is most interesting and wearable. The designs suggest Chi- nese motifs, but are less definite. (Left,, and below middle design) On a black ground are tightly grouped little colored flowers, typical of the Darbrook “tub silks.’ The Dar- brook collection is vivid and wearable. Plaids are most important in the American silk collections, in crépes and shirting silks. Shown at the bottom of the page is cream-colored tub silk plaided in puce color. Darbrook. AMERICAN SILKS (Below and right of top design) A delightful Mallinson fabric is a cream-colored tub silk with an in- : teresting arrangement of dark and \ light rose-colored crossing stripes. (Middle) Shadowy geometric shapes, \ diamonds and triangles, crowd one upon another over the surface of this chiffon. In mauve, cerise, red, and blue-green. From Mallinson.

‘ << ee - | " \ a / 5s i ] / / ! | / i / \ | / | | / (Right, below motif in middie) ee) ? Se / Scattered over the surface of crépe, + 7 like playing cards thrown on a table, t 3 / are rectangular designs that repeat / symbols on cards. From Darbrook. / | HAVE DECIDED INDIVIDUALITY

HARPER’S BAZAR

me

eens «nee

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for FEBRUARY 1926 waist lt a a (Top motif) Delicate Watteau de- signs, nosegays of colored flowers against a tinted or black background, printed on raw silk; some of the in- teresting fabrics in the Cheney line. (Right, below top motif) Surah silk with a cream background printed with motifs in one color. Harmo- nizing tinted backgrounds are a Cheney innovation this season. m4 7 4 Fabrics on this page from CHENEY BROS. To the left below the middle motif is shown a bit of Cheney chiffon, one of their “ethereal geometric” designs, patterned with kaleido- scopic pastel-colored motifs. CHARACTERISTIC V4 AY ANA ‘ \ : al 4 é ISO \ A\El | LE Z : 4, ‘em ‘ : ‘ 1 ZY i, a 4, AY A os acy a DESIGNS FOR NEXT SUMMER’S (Below, and to the right of top motif) Another typical Cheney fabric is a flat crépe with tinted background and small motifs in shades of one color, shown here in soft gray-green. (Middle) Geometric and formal, and extremely smart. A Cheney flat crépe patterned with designs in- spired by stained glass windows. In shaded color on a tinted background. (Below middle motif, and to the right) Extremely interesting small geometric shapes and _petal-like forms are sprinkled over the surface of this chiffon. In deli ate colors. (Bottom) Cheney plaids are close and fine, and plaided in shades of one color on a tinted background, such as shades of brown on a beige ground, or shades of green on a light green. FROCK S

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HARPER’S BAZAR Irregular threads of shaded color run through Rodier’s new kashas. (Middle) “ Kasha- toile” is a new Rodier fabric. Tweed, with a herring-bone weave of dark and light color, is still very smart for top-coats for street and country wear. An American fabric, smart for sports wear, is white wool in an enormous basket- From Gera Mills. The house of Meyer weaves thin fine tweeds in pastel colors, shading from light to dark, like this basket-weave in rose. weave. WOOL FABRICS OF A HOMESPUN NATURE ARE STILL SMART iT cet OE PN PO sl, RE ER \ tr > 2 S CiVA x V t Nv) A WA f N WA AYAVANY NNN } A y NUN V,\ } I /ANS YAN RYAN YN f, N YN yr i VAN’ hy WW YAWN VX 4 4 VAY . t Ye WAVY YAWAA YN ‘ NY) YN) AY NY | AAW y a\/) NM ae Three models from BEST AND CO as £ & The Paquin cape-coat shown above is made of “ Frisca,” a new fabric that resembles a fine A typical three-piece suit for spring from the tweed shown at the upper left on this page. wool éponge with an artificial silk, is very Molyneux is made of two kinds of tweed, Blue and darker blue, in a herring-bone weave. smart made like this French sports frock. plain beige and beige dotted with brown threads.

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FEBRUARY

for

Each spring one looks for just such a lovely fabric from Rodier. The ground is cotton brocaded with silk flowers. An interesting fabric Rodier now makes is kasha cloth, with large flowers brocaded on it in artificial silk.

ARE

1926 ODD

A sports coat made of the new Rodier kasha brocaded with fiber silk, is of a new acid green, with the design in shimmering white. IN THEMSELVES JAY-THORPE

NEW FABRICS

<ce KURZMAN

For afternoon and summer informal evening wear is a black satin cape-wrap, lined with the figured black chiffon at the top of the page. AND ODD r GN TV) rae 97

American and French fabric houses show flowered chiffons, in rather wistful faded colors on a black ground. (Middle) Rodier chiffon with enormous flame-like motifs. (Left, below) Fortuny block- prints cream linen with beige. TO USE \ i — (~~) <9, rYY\. y

} h <<< AAS Na NN -YYYYYY YY YVVTVYVYY ty ~ = eee eh A RAR —" S Vy / / \ 4 Py 5 } | a F g. tHrawt” ‘. VY JAY-THORPE A smart coat for summer evening wear is of the Fortuny fabric shown above, cut on tailored lines, and edged with gold lamé.

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By ROBERT AICHENS Surely “Jack thought of the Scarlet Woman. Mlle. Was she not, perhaps, the Gray Woman, unostentatious, full of delicate nuances?” HARPER’S BAZAR Durier was not that. HE SCREEN The Adventure of an Innocent Englishman in the Forest of Fontainebleau A SuHort RESuME OF PRECEDING PARTS ACK RICHBOROUGH was far more cynical concerning life in general—and women in particular—than an attractive and well-to-do young bachelor of thirty had any right to be. He had had a bad experience during the war when the girl he was engaged to had jilted him and suddenly married an aviator whom she hardly knew. For his holiday, Jack found himself wandering disconsolately about Paris, but on a trip to the cool quiet of the Fontainebleau Forest he discovered the Hotel Mirabeau, with its excellent ménage and a beautiful accessible golf course, and he decided to stay. On his second evening there, Jack’s elderly waiter, who had become as friendly and solicitous as a father, advised a cinema for his amusement. A famous actress, one Antoinette Durier, was being featured. He learned that Mademoiselle Durier was staying at a friend’s home in Fontainebleau, and through the adroit aid of the old waiter he managed to cultivate the acquaintance of “Ma dame,” proprietress of the Hotel Mirabeau, who contrived an introduction to the star and a musician named Krahmer. She had made a deep impression upon him through her acting, and now to his gratification she appeared exactly the she had been on the Jack eagerly ac- cepted her invitation to call at the Maison Blanche, where she was staying. He had nearly forgotten that he had long since given up believing in women. Many perplexing thoughts now crowded into same as screen. Illustrated by JounN LAGATTA Jack’s mind. He considered the men in the artist group around the film actress, and noted a subtle peculiarity in their attitude toward her. He realized he was afraid of further knowledge concerning this dark woman. The next day, however, when he discovered that Antoinette and Krahmer were both away from Fontainebleau, he found himself deliberately planning to learn more of the actress from Alonzo Leri, a young South American artist of her circle. During a day spent in the Forest with Leri he learned that she was a famous Parisian demi- mondaine. Leri also warned him against pursuing her while she spent so much time at Krahmer’s Asile Vert. PART Four HE bill was paid, the carriage was summoned, and in the calm beauty of the now moonlit night the two young men set out on their drive through the Forest. Leri was still in his hilarious mood, boiling evidently with energy and animal spirits. Jack, confused in mind, and beset by a nightmare feeling of tragedy, was making an effort wholly unnatural to him. He was trying to act a part, and, like most Englishmen, he was a thorough- ly bad actor. He strove to match, or even to sur- pass, Leri’s riotous joviality with a cheerfulness which was almost convulsive. He talked at the top of his voice. He laughed, he shook with laughter. He even broke into song when they were out of the village and taken by the silence and mystery of the trees. What he sang he never knew afterwards. Probably he insulted the Forest with some drivel from the last musical comedy he had heard in London. But he knew, both at the time and after- wards, that while he was talking, laughing, and singing he held in his mind a wish that seemed hard and cold. He wished he was drunk. Only if he were drunk could he keep naturally in step with the mood of Leri; only if he were drunk could he escape from his feeling of nightmare. But he was hopelessly sober. In the midst of his mental confusion he felt dry, detached, and self- conscious; in the midst of his noisy pretense of heady spirits and youthful animation he felt older than he had ever felt before. He listened to his own silly talk, he heard the arid cackle of his own laugh- ter, he endured the unmelodious noise of his own singing voice, like an elderly cynic at a distance, criticizing, condemning a riot which he can not conceive taking part in. And all the time he was, somewhere, acutely conscious of the environing contrast of the Forest, of driving through beauty and betraying it, of carrying sheer vulgarity at a trot through Nature’s tenderly austere refinement. Not a highly imagina- tive man, to-night the shock he had endured, and had not yet had time fully to understand, seemed to have given him as well as confusion a heightened susceptibility, a power of feeling nature at the same time as himself in a new and forcible way.

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“While Jack was still under the impression of wonder at what he had done without intending to do it—Antoinetle was quietly talking about Franchard.” Nature, he thought, half vaguely, half confusedly, held herself terribly apart from the life of men. As they drove on through the serried ranks of the trees the Forest seemed disdainful in the night. Yet it breathed out charm and enticement, as if not able to help offering its immeasurable calm for men to take if they would; and its odors hung in the night like the pale smoke of incense above an altar, where many had bowed themselves and loosened their hearts in prayer. “What are we going to do, my old boy?” said Leri, presently. “Do?” said Jack. “Yes. You don’t suppose I have left Barbizon merely to drive in an old rattletrap like this through the Forest at such a time of night. I'Jl tell you what! When we get to Fontainebleau we'll hire a motor and drive on to Paris!” “You must be mad! Why, we shouldn’t get there till God knows what time in the morning.” “‘But it’s quite close. It only takes—” “‘Tt’s much too late for Paris,” said Jack, decisively. “Why? Paris never sleeps. Old London goes to bed at half-past eleven. Every one knows that. But—” “I’m not going to Paris to-night,’’ said Jack. “Then what are we going to do?” “‘T don’t know,” said Jack, gloomily. His forced exuberance had suddenly died away. He simply couldn’t keep (Continued on page 142).

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HARPER’S BAZAR

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for FEBRUARY 1926

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102 HARPER’S BAZAR Accessories from MADAME EL KHOURY The large picture at the top is a flexible Peter These modern hoop earrings, in the same Pan lace collar reproduced in fine silver wire, group with the pendent earrings, are of silver dipped in gold and held together by chains. wire, washed in gold and picturesquely twisted. (Above) An unusual and charming pair of The Victorian pendant in the center is an cone-shaped antique pendent earrings of authentic antique. It is of old gold with a filigree gold with three interesting drops. place at the back for a tiny portrait or miniature. A flexible gold bracelet with repoussé orna- ments is also a Victorian antique. These single bracelets are fast replacing the many bangles. A quaint bangle above is washed in gold and is composed of smooth silver beads with open- work rondelles and one Chinese enamel bead. oad Protographed by Robert Waida “Twentieth-century wedding-rings’” of gold or silver are worn at the base of the neck tike a collar. They open like bracelets and are worn in pairs. INTERESTING GOLD JEWELRY IS NOW SMART

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West 51th Street Tew ‘York

HARMER Hugh Walpole’s (Continued from page 91) admired Mrs. Bond immensely, was happy to be there in that intimate circle drinking tea, and wished to take her part, to fit into the atmosphere, to say something that would seem striking and pleasant. Canon Ronder was announced. Every one was delighted. The moment that his friendly beaming spectacles were seen a coziness was added to the coziness already present. He was given the best chair. He smiled upon them all. He liked to be there. They adored to have him. “We are talking of your protégé, Canon Ronder.”’ Julia Preston said. “The Great Dane. The Viking. Harmer John, you know.” Ronder was pleased. He wished that Harmer John should be considered his protégé. He had heard that Wistons was taking him up. Just the way to ruin the fellow. Who had given him his first private job? Who was always first in looking after the town’s real interests? “Well, I can tell you something about that,” he said, beaming round upon them all. “‘What do you say to a lecture from this hero, or even two or three? A demonstration, you know, with some of his ablest pupils. The suggestion has been made to him and I think something will come of it. He’s such a modest fellow that he needed some per- suading but when he was shown what a help such a thing would be to the cause that he had at heart he gave in. The affair is practi- cally arranged. In the Town Hall about three weeks from now and I am to take the chair.” OW, wasn’t that splendid? Wasn’t that the very thing? How clever of Canon Ronder to have thought of it! “He must be a remarkable sort of man,” old Colonel Cartright said, stepping forward in his slow cautious way. “Have you heard the way they're talking about him down in Seatown? I’m told he wandered down there the other day and into some rooms or other and found a child dying there. Just put his hands on the child’s forehead and cured it. The women down there say he’s a saint, they tell me, and when he goes down they bring their babies and their ailments and one thing and another just as though he were Christ Himself.” “Ah! that’s a pity,” said Ronder gravely. “He must stick to his job. He’s just a fine young fellow who knows his work and is full of enthusiasm for it. If they begin spoiling him and making him theatrical it will be a thousand pities. I must speak to him about it.” There was general agreement about this. We don’t want him spoilt and we don’t want him putting his nose into something that he can’t possibly understand. That’s the worst of it; if you’re not an Englishman you never know where to stop. However, he’s young and unspoilt. A word from Canon Ronder. And what a fine fellow! Straight from those Northern mists, those virgin forests, those untrodden snows... . The figure rises, gigantic, god-like, higher and higher, above the teacups, out over the housetops, towering Titanic above the cathedral roofs themselves. AT THAT very moment Johanson, in his shirt sleeves, was leaning over the table in the outer office of his gymnasium reading from a book. He was bending down upon his straightened arms as though he had been arrested by the sight of the open book on the table as he was crossing to pick up his coat. His hair was tousled, his face flushed. He had just ceased work. He was about to close the place and go home. Old Billy Tennant was standing there, looking up at him with exactly the expression of a dog waiting for his master. With his short, thick body, his stumpy legs, his impertinent mouth, and affectionate eyes, he resembled precisely a Sealyham. Johanson was reading: “When Levin reloaded his gun and moved on, the sun had already risen although it was still invisible behind the clouds. The moon had lost all its splendor and looked faint and pale: not a single star could be seen. The puddles, that a short time ago had looked silvery in the dew, were now golden. The grass, too, that had appeared bluish before, now assumed a yellow-green tint. The swamp birds were chirping about in the bushes, sparkling with dew and casting long shadows. A hawk was sitting on a rick wagging its head from side to side and looking discontent- edly over the marsh. Jackdaws were flying about in the meadow; a barefooted boy was leading the horses up to the old man who raised himself from under his coat and began scratching different parts of his body. The smoke from the shot lay like a white mist on the green grass. A boy came running toward Levin. ‘There were wild ducks here yesterday!’

HARPER’S BAZAR JOHN New Novel he shouted from a distance, as he tried to catch him up.” Johanson was savoring a moment of exquisite pleasure. He drew a deep breath through his nostrils, raising his head, expand- ing his chest. ‘he book was open there by chance—* Anna Karenina,” by Tolstoi. Miss Midgeley had lent it to him. He had not begun to read it yet; the volume had been lying on the table there in the outside office and some one had opened it at that place, He had caught sight of the open page as he was passing through to get his coat and he had stopped. He was caught instantly away into that world that during the last two or three months he had in some way lost. There again was the house, the open rooms bathed in light, the silver birch, the faintly purple sky, the Donatello David seen at the top of the gleaming staircase . . . and, with it all, this Tolstoi country blended, the bushes sparkling with dew, the bare-footed boy, the horses, the smoke lying like a white mist... . E STRAIGHTENED himself, looking about the room like a man in a dream. “ Ah, that’s good!” he thought. “That life is mine. That is very true life.” And again, as so often before, he understood that funny strawberry-faced old Miss Midgeley was always leading him back into his true life, either by a book or a word or a glance, as though she understood better than any one else in the world what his life was. There were people like that, not at all your most intimate friends, almost strangers to you perhaps, who yet understood better than any one else what your life ought to be and were always leading you back to it. But, stretching his arms, feeling through all his body the magnificent weariness of a well- spent day, above all, scenting ahead of him the exquisite joy that was in store for him (a joy freshly renewed every day, kept sus- pended in front of him, and approached ever more closely as the afternoon advanced), his evening meeting with Maude, he went up to Tennant, took him by the shoulders and gently shook him. ‘I’m happy, Billy, terribly happy. Is it dangerous, do you think?” “You deserve to be happy,” Billy answered, looking at him with eyes full of pride. “ You're a good man.” “Will you stick by me, Billy, whatever happens?” “(ll never leave you,” the old man an- swered, “less you ask me to. I've got terrible fond of you.” “You're an obstinate old devil,” Johanson answered. ‘But I was lucky to find you. Well, good night.” “Good night, sir,’ Billy answered, and turned about to put the room straight before locking up. OMING out of the building and into the Market-place, he sniffed the evening air, loving its freshness, its scents of the country town where, the business of the day over, the smell of the fields, the woods, the hill come stepping lightly into the streets, pressing up the stairway, threading through the windows. How small and simple this place, but how lovable and friendly with the greetings at the doorways and the cathedral bells singing the time through the air as though especially for Harmer John going home from his work. He felt, as so often before, that he would yet further postpone the glorious instant of that meeting with Maude, that sight of her that always told him with a rush of sensuous triumph that she was more wonderful than all his imagination of the afternoon, stretching like a gorgeous tapestry behind his hard and concentrated work, had assured him. “T will go in for a moment to Tom’s. The boy will just be going to bed. He misses me if I don’t come.”’ He climbed Orange Street, loving the English decorum of the old eigh- teenth century doors, the shining knockers, the neat propriety of the little stone steps, the smiling pride of the gleaming professional plates, doctors and lawyers and architects. ‘No streets like these anywhere else in the world and they are mine. Although I am half a foreigner, England is mine. I belong to it and trust it. It has given me my love and my work and in return I will give it everything I have and am.” E OPENED the creaking gate and walked up the path. Soon he was in the old house smelling the old smells of varnish and books and geraniums and _ tobacco that seemed to speak to him with a personal voice. “Hullo!” he called. “Hullo!” came Mary Longstaffe’s voice from up-stairs. Tom Longstaffe, puffing at his pipe, ap- peared at the doorway of the study. “Mary’s upstairs bathing the kid,” he cried. “I'll join you in a minute.” He went up. He knew the way to the bathroom. The door was open; Billy was in (Continued on page 106)

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ERGDORF OODMAN 616 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK A kasha cape lined with foulard to match the frock introduces a rival to the coat ensemble. Spon- sored by Bergdorf-Goodman. HARMER Hugh Walpole’s HARPER’S BAZAR JOHN New Novel (Continued from page 104) the bath sailing his boat; his mother, her sleeves rolled up over her arms, was soaping his back. At sight of his friend he jumped up, scattering the water, pushing his mother back with his hand, standing waving his arms: “Mr. Johnson! Mr. Johnson! I’ve got to ride you to bed, haven’t I? I’ve nearly finished. Oh, mother, that’s soap enough. I’m clean as clean. Mr. Johnson, I’ve got a dog. He’s a Sealyham. Grand- father’s got him. He’s down in the kitchen.” IS voice, in his excitement, broke into a funny squeak: his body shining in the light, the water running down hislegs, his black hair sticking up in little points made him seem a little animal caught in the woods somewhere, quivering now with life. “Good evening, Miss Longstaffe,” Johan- son said. “I don’t hope you mind my coming a moment.” She smiled as though they were very old friends. “Oh, no,” she said, straightening herself, seeming very large in the little room. “Billy would have been terribly disappointed if you hadn’t come. He always seems to expect you.” She sat down, a towel on her lap, another over her arm. Billy climbed out and stood between her knees. He talked all the while as his mother dried him: “Mr. Johnson! Mr. Johnson! The puppy’s got a black eye. That’s why grandfather bought him, because of his black eye. Sealyhams oughtn’t to, the man said, and he isn’t a proper Sealyham, but he’s nearer that than anything else. I’m going to teach him to walk and hunt and everything, only the awful thing is,” here his voice dropped to great gravity, “that he likes the kitchen better than anywhere and he hasn’t got to. Mother says it’s because he picks up scraps, but I’m going to tie him to the leg of the dining-room table when I’m not there— That’s enough, mother. I’m dry now. Yes, I really am. I'll do my ears myself. Mr. Johnson, I’m not fat, am I? I haven’t a bit of fat on my body, have I?” He said it with so grown-up an air that they both laughed. He turned round to Johanson, stretched out his arms, stood on his toes, his face pursed up, anxiously, for approval. So he stood, his perfect little naked body like a flower in its first bloom, the skin rosy from his bath, the eyes of absolute innocence and honesty, the head royally posed, the little muscles showing beneath the soft skin. So he stood before life had written its narrative upon him. His mother threw his nightgown over his head; he wriggled into it as a butterfly might wriggle back into his chrysalis after a mo- ment’s release. “Now!” he cried, clapping his hands. Johanson bent down, touching the floor with his fingers. Billy climbed onto his back fixing his arms around the thick strong neck. Johanson slowly rose and the ride up-stairs began. Billy sat, his face lit with a serious ecstasy, surveying the world from that great height. All the world was now different to him—the tops of the pictures, the corners under the ceiling, the funny sudden ending of the wall-paper when its pattern was only half finished, the great distance of the floor and the strange different pattern that the carpet now made, the foreshortened furniture with dumpy legs, but above all the pride. the adventure, the triumph at being so high, at taking such risks, at the companionship with the man whom already he admired more than any one else in the world—all this was happiness and all this was the first promise of that same spirit that was afterward to lead him to such splendid adventure and so glorious a death. P the narrow stairs they went, brushing the Caldecott pictures as they went, along the passage lit now with the evening sun, soon he was sinking, sinking, strong hands were about his body holding him so firmly and yet so tenderly, he was between the sheets gazing in silence at the ceiling. In silence because it had been so great an experience. Then he put up his arms, pulled down Johanson’s head and kissed him. Then he turned to the wall, sighed with happiness, and almost at once, like the animal that he was, was asleep. They stood watching him for a moment, then went out into the passage. ‘What do you think?” Johanson said, as they walked down-stairs. ‘I’m to give a lecture, perhaps two or three. Canon Ronder made the suggestion. He says people want it. I don’t know myself—what do you think?” He was already feeling that this girl had more common sense than any one else he knew. No, not more than old Miss Midgeley, but common sense of a different sort, knowl- edge of the world. He felt that she had suffered in the way that he would suffer if Maude died or left him—suffer so that the wound would always be there, not to make him misanthropic or cynical but to change him forever. So she was changed. “TI think it’s a very good idea,” she said, smiling up at her father who had joined them, “What will you do? Read them a paper or just talk? Talking’s better.” “Ah, that’s one trouble,” he said. “My English is so bad. I’m shy to expose it. But I thought I would speak a little and then have some drilling exercises—four or five of us—and then speak some more. What do you say?” “T think it’s fine!” Tom Longstaffe cried eagerly. “Why, you’re becoming the most important man in the place, Johnnie. And then you'll be so important that you'll be deserting us and going up to London and we'll never see you again.” “No, but you do think it’s good, wise?” he asked earnestly, turning round to her, his hand on her father’s shoulder. “Not too conceited, not too bold?’ “Not a bit,” she answered him confidently. “And you'll have the great satisfaction of being sure that no one else in the place knows anything about it. That’s a great help, I’m sure, when you’re lecturing.” As he walked to his house he thought of the two of them standing together in their doorway waving him good-by. They were wonderful friends. They would stand by him forever, whatever happened. But why this eternal “whatever happened?” Into his happiness for a moment a little chill fore- boding fell. It was because everything was prospering so that he feared. Not entirely. He stopped for an instant under the monu- ment of that funny old frock-coated towns- man to be honest with himself. It was because he was keeping things away from himself, because he would not face everything, Seatown and other things. He had been to Seatown a number of times during the last weeks seeing that sick child and— No, he would not! He gazed up at the evening sky with almost passionate entreaty. This day must be splendid. He would not make it miserable with thought of wrongs that he could not cure. No, that he could not cure. Not now. Afterwards. Later. Later. Later. Later. The sibilant trees seemed to whisper after him down the lane. UTSIDE the door of the house, as once before on that stormy night, he stopped, waiting, with a be: ating heart, as though he were afraid of the joy that was to come. What if Maude were ill or had been hurt in some accident or were angry with him and would not see him or— Laughing aloud at his own folly he turned the handle of the door and went in. In the kitchen there was only Judy laying the table, gravely, silently as always. She did not like him; he could tell that, but to-night every one must like him, and con- scious that for another moment he was extending that gorgeous heart-throbbing antic- ipation of Maude, hanging up his coat he said to her: “Well, Judy, how is it? All well although I’m away the whole day? Bearing up? “You mean is Maude well?” she said, not looking at him. “No, I don’ t. love all of you.’ “Yes. So you say.” “But I do.” He went up to her, caught her head back and kissed her. Her cheeks flamed but she replied nothing until, standing on the other side of the table, she said quietly: “You shouldn’t have done that, Mr. Johanson. It wasn’t kind.” He was distressed. In Denmark you kissed every girl; you thought nothing about it at all; and she was Maude’s sister. And now he had made her unhappy. “Ah, Judy,” he said,“ I’m to be your brother. We're brother and sister almost already. 1 want you to be happy as I are happy.” “Keep your kisses for Maude,” she an- swered fiercely. “I don’t want them. And we’re not brother and sister. You haven't married Maude yet.” He looked at her with so kindly and friendly an expression that she dropped her eyes as though she didn’t wish to realize that he could look at her so. “No,” he said, “that’s true. I’ve not married Maude yet. I’m terribly sorry I’ve hurt your feelings, Judy. Why is it I’m always wrong with 7 If I’m keen at anybody or anything I don’t stop to think enough. People think rey in England than in most countries. I’ll be the same when I've been here awhile.” Her hand trembled as she arranged some knives and forks. She only said, looking up at him quickly: ““Here’s Maude.” I mean you. Everybody. I HE came toward him wearing her hat and coat. “‘Let’s go out,” she said to him quickly. “There’s twenty sminutes before supper. It’s so close in here.’ He took down his hat and they went out. They often did that now; privacy was (Continued on page 108)

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WRAPS LINGERIE AND SPORTSWEAR FURS GOWNS COATS MILLINERY OUR NEW BUILDING 548 FIFTH AVENUE cAt 45th Street, PVew York No connection with any other store) HARMER Hugh Walpole’s New HARPER’S JOHN Novel BAZ (Continued from page 106) difficult in the house—but on such a purple silver oy as this they could cut away, along the lane and then through the wicket- gate to the left down the slope of the field, through the hedge and up the hill on the other side. They had a favorite tree, old, thick, of multitudinous branches, and under it on a warm evening they could sit, close together, seeing the lights of the town come out, smelling the evening scents of grass and flower, sometimes facing the orange glow of sunset as it whirled across the sky. O-NIGHT he knew, by the way that she clung to him, kissing him again and again, stroking slowly his hair, thrusting her hand in between his waistcoat and thin shirt above the beating of his heart, that she was in a storm of love. Every throb of his blood responded to her, but as he held her close to him with all the strength that he could muster he controlled himself, feeling that she was like some small lonely bird in his hands—the bird perhaps that they had released—and that he must keep her safe from all harm, must watch over her and guard her. Her cheek resting against his she mur- mured: “I have wanted you so to-day—Oh! terribly. It was all I could do not to go to the office to see whether you were still there. Yes, I felt this morning that you had dis- appeared. Just as you came here that night. You don’t belong to us really—not to mother nor me nor the town nor any of us. You'll go one night just as you came. I know you will. I know you will.” He held her closer and closer, her body in his hands as though it were his body. But he felt a swift strange apprehension born through her words. Was it so? Did he not belong here? Was this place, this love, this work a dream and was there some other life waiting for him that would catch him back and awaken him to reality? No, his love for her was real enough. He knew it: it went far beyond the desire of body for body, far beyond these embraces that were only the feeble sign of its presence, deep into some dark underworld of longing. “We can never separate, you and I,” he spoke to the pale shadow of the sky, the dark curtain of the tree above their heads. “Tf we were to quarrel, to separate, never to meet in the flesh again, I would still hold you; you will never be free of me.” “But I don’t want it like that,’ she an- swered. ‘Oh, Johnnie, I want us to be married—soon, soon, soon. You aren’t mine until then; but when we are sleeping together and when I can look up and see you sleeping there beside me and know that the whole of you is mine, that you aren’t a ghost—” ‘And when we have children,” he broke in upon her gently. “No, I'll be jealous of them. They’ll take you from me, part of you. I'll be jealous of anybody, anything—” She drew herself away from him, resting her elbow on the grass, looking up at him. “Where were you to-night before you came home? You were later than usual. I know. You went in to see those Longstaffes.” Her voice that had been soft was now sharp, a little shrill, with a common Glebe- shire tang in it. “Yes,” he said quickly. for a moment.” She drew further away from him. ““T knew it. You’re always going in there. What can you see in those people? ” He made no answer. She waited, then went on, her voice more shrill. “I know what you see in them. It’s that girl, that girl that ought never to have shown her face in this town, bringing back her baby and all. __” “T looked in there She broke off, aware perhaps of the speed with which they were traveling away from their happiness of a few moments before. She plucked at the grass. HE, DREW her back to him. Her body was at first stiff, then yielded, and with a sigh she buried her face i in his coat. “Maude, Maude,” he answered her gently. “You must trust me more than that. You must know what my love for you are. There can be nothing but trust when two people love one another as we. Tom Longstaffe were my first friend, outside your house, in all this place. He were the first to hold out his hand and take mine. I love him more than any other man. Where one man love another it is something altogether different from love of woman. It is something quiet and steady. It have always seemed to me that to have a real man friend would be one of the greatest things in all life, but I have never had one until now. I don’t hope you’re jealous of Tom Longstaffe—” he laughed. “No, not of him,” she murmured, “but of the girl—” “Then there is the boy,” “The small boy. he went on. He is a fine little boy, strong and brave, and until you give me some I must have some children somewhere near. Always I had to have, in Copenhagen, Stoc kholm, everywhere. “But you'd give them up if I asked you?” she said quickly. “Give them up?” he asked. mean?” “Tf I said that I wouldn’ t marry you unless you gave them up ‘Ah, but you wouldn't,” he answered her. “You couldn't. It wouldn't be you. Another woman, yes. But I couldn’t love another woman while you live.” “But if I asked you to give her up?” “Give her up? Miss Longstaffe? Yes, if I loved her. I would see then that I must choose between you and her. But I don’t love her. I shall never love her. You don’t understand, Maude, how my love is for you. It is everything—all my body, soul, spirit. While you live there will never be another woman. I have waited for you all my life and now I have you. But I must be free, too. Not free to love other women but to have my friends and my life. And you must be free to have your life.’ She realized that. He was just. She believed in what he said—now. But later? She leaned up, drew his head down to her. So they stayed for a while, then, quietly, walked down the darkening fields toward the town. “How do you HREE days later Maude went for a week to the little village of Rafiel to stay with an aunt who was expected to leave money. Johanson wrote her five letters, and these are extracts: My dearest beluvedest darling am escaped the dull wether its been since you left by a lot of work but I am thinking so much of you and I hav had no word from you onely that line with lov, I don’t hope you're angry with me? I am beginning to wok tomorrow for the lecture and everyone are so nice about it onely old Mrs. Eldred with complains over my not giveing her more to do because I am always thinking of myself. Well, I’m not are I, darling? It shall be fine for the lecture, first I shal talk about thery and such things, not much talking you know becaus my english is bad and then there will be five of us— me, Walter Pearce, Harry Pearce, Frank- lin and my young Tennent boy and we shall do all the exercises and the pyramyd and everything. Then I shal talk some more and it will be all over—one hour and a haf I think. I shal look forward darling till your coming and seeing me mak my exercises properly wich you never hav yet. I think of you allways morning afternoon evening and I hop we shall spend a nice time together when you return. I do love you so—I do—I love you for ever and ever and ever. A great hug from your devoted lover Hjalmar. . . . Last night I could not sleep. It aren't like me at all not to sleep but I wanted you so badly my darling. I walked down and up my little room and thought of you and how you would be sleeping and then of all the great tawns in the world and not one haveing anyone so luvley as you and I sent you such heeps of love that I think you should have waked in your sleep and know what I were thinking. The work are moveing finely. The two Pearce boys are proud I have asked them and I have nau aranged everything for my perfermence, I feel something like a Cirkus darling like a cammul or ellifant you understand how I would feel dont you but Cannon Ronder says it shall do all the people good and Im sure I hop so. I am nau ending this but shall write again tomorrow and thought your letter should hav been longer but it was very sweet what it said and I lov you more with every breth I breath Your adoring luver Hjalmar . I were so tired yesterday with all the work for the lecture and all the audinary work to that I com home an hour early. I reada book Miss Midgeley 0 given me, very fine, “Anna Karen- * by a ey about marriage happy ant unhappy. I dont hope you shal be like Anna darling onely when I am return- ing to work when we are married you must not be dul without me as she were without her husband that is the way for married people to be unhappy with one another. There is another man in the book Levin his name is and although he is a Russian that doessent matter because he is like a brother to me. I feel like he (Continued on page 100)

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for FEBRUARY HARMER 1926 Hugh Walpole’s JOHN New Novel (Continued from page 108) does about everything. Your mother hav a cold and Judy sulks she wont spik to anyone and we dossent know what is the matter. Fletch is asking me about the new buildings I shoud hav will I hav them and I said yes allthow I must borrow money from him but I must hav more room nau dont you think so darling? Your mother is a wunderfull woman. I luv her allmost lik you not quiet but neerly. She is so quite but allways the same and we understand one anuther wunderfull. You must forgiv my spell- ing dearest onely english is not written as it is spokken is it. Your muther dos- sent want me to tak the money from Fletch but what shal I do? I must have more room and there is no other place will do like these rooms in Market Street and I must hav them from Fletch if I get them. What do you say darling. In your letter you say you count the minites til you see me again and so I do you. I am onely hoping we shal be married in two or three munths I cant waite longer for you and these engage- ments are cruel are not they when two people luv one another like you and me. O darling com home, com home I ake and ake for you to hav you in my arms and mak you happy with kisses and heer your voice and see your eyes—Darling, darling if I could writ to you in Danish language I would say so mutch but with this spelling it caches me up. I luv you so more every minit. Your luving luver Hjalmar. ‘ and the day after tomorrow you shall be home again. It seems to mutch to beleeve. I am comming to the station although I should not becaus of my wok. That goes splendidly and everyone seems keen at the lecture. In anuther day or more there will be notices in the tawn about it and then they will buy tikets or I hop so. Would not it be terible darling if no one bought tickets and onely a few friends came but I dont hope that and Cannon Ronder says that everyone are comming. I had a dream of you last night singing in my garden not a garden you know of but one I dream of and allways the same garden. You was never in it befor but last night you were there singing in a tree and I could not see you but you sang that you were always there now and would never leave me and that made me terrible happy. You told me once that dreams were foolish but sometimes I am not certin which are dreams and which are real. You are perhaps a dream what is truely you I mean. ... Com quick, I want you. I want you I must kiss you ee ss. HE returned, looking so lovely that he did not know why every one in the street did not stand transfixed by her beauty. Notices were posted. A LECTURE ENTITLED PHYSICAL FITNESS AND ITS RELATION TO HUMAN HAPPINESS WITH DEMONSTRATIONS will be 4 a HJALMAR JOH: ANSON ; GYMNASTIC PROFESSOR (Stockholm. Gothenburg. Copenhagen) on WEDNESDAY, MAY 22nd, 1907. IN THE TOWN HALL . POLCHESTER CHAIRMAN—CANON RONDER. Doors Open 7.30 Carriages 9.30 They were posted liberally. It was im- possible to avoid Johanson’s name. He felt shy like a girl. He walked up the side streets home. Then four things occurred, all small things and all, for their consequences, important. FIRST he met Mrs. Bond in the street. She looked like a flower, so dainty and fresh and dewy she was. She smiled—the smile that has made people happy from Timgad to Beersheba. It made Johanson happy; he was happy already because it was a fine day and the tickets were selling so well for his lecture. He looked down at her and she looked up at him. She did not like men who were too tall; that was something that she had against him from the first. “Oh, Mr. Johnson, I am so glad to see you. I am coming to your lecture, you know. I am looking forward to it so much.” “Yes,” he said. “It shall be very interest- ing. “I’m sure it will be,” she answered. (What a conceited man! she thought.) “And so good for all of us. And oh, Mr. Johnson, my boy Horace tells me that he is in your gy mnastic class at school and he is enjoying it so much. I do hope he is good at his work and improving.” Johanson should have been warned, but it was a beautiful day and every one was smiling. Then, he had never been a cautious man. He hated the Bond boy; of all the boys in the class that was the boy the most hated by him. The Bond boy was mean and false and treacherous, trying always himself to avoid work and to fasten it upon others. Yes, he hated the Bond boy, so, looking down upon the smiling mother, he answered: ““No, he doesn’t work. I’m sorry to say it, but he’s the most lazy boy in the class. He’s not keen at his work at all, and he’s too fat, much too fat for his years. White in the face, too.”” And, having said this, he looked at Mrs. Bond with the same friendliness as though he had said nothing at all to wound her maternal heart. And she smiled back at him with all the courtesy of a thousand European civilizations. ‘Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that, I must speak to him. He didn’t give me that im- pression: he seemed to be enjoying his work so much. All my three boys are coming to your lecture and I’m sure it will do them so much good. We are SO looking forward. Good-by. Good-by— And that same afternoon she began her work, declaring at Mrs. Ryle’s: met that nice gymnastic man in the High Street this afternoon and I do like him so much. It’s quite untrue that he’s getting swollen-headed as people say and the rest. People are so unfair. Of course, a foreigner has a different code of morals altogether from ourselves. Nevertheless, to say, as people Sa HE second thing that occurred was an impulse. He had an amazing unexpected impulse to strangle Canon Ronder. He went, as always, twice a week to massage Ronder in his house. This deed was executed in his bedroom. He did not like the Canon’s bed- room, because it was, to his feeling, too effeminate. The curtains were of old-rose brocade, there was a piece of African silk on the bed, a copy (a fine one) of Botticelli’s “Primavera” over the mantelpiece, a dress- ing gown of dark brown silk over the back of the chair. The Canon, during the massage, wore pajamas of white silk. There were flowers in the room, rose-colored tulips, and on the floor a thick purple-tinted Persian carpet. Too much silk, too many colors, not enough windows open. When the Canon lay on his bed (the African silk removed from it) his pajama jacket open, his skin was so fat and so smooth and so white that Johanson felt, looking at him, a strange kind of impropriety. He had not a hair on his chest and without his round spectacles his eyes were strange, cynical, sarcastic, sensual. ‘“‘He didn’t ought to be a clergyman,” had been Johanson’s first thought when he saw him naked, without his spectacles, stretched upon his bed. However, he had been to see him now on so many occasions that he had lost some of his uneasiness, almost all of it. Then to-day, unexpectedly, it came back to him and in great force. “Turn over, please,” and Ronder slowly, like some animal rolling in a pool, turned over. All this while Ronder, lying on his back, had been talking and talking well. He had stared at the ceiling and from it had extracted the true purpose of his discourse which was as follows—that by this time he and Johanson were friends—was it not so? The town in general recognized this and it was felt by everybody that he and Johanson were work- ing together for some common purpose, and that purpose was the advancement of Pol- chester. Now, each had his own gifts, Ronder his and Johanson his. Johanson knew much that no one else in the town knew, but Ronder was older, had more knowledge of the world and had more knowledge especially of Pol- chester, its citizens, its classes and divisions, its true needs. This lecture that was coming might be taken as the first public step for- ward made by Ronder and Johanson together. Would Johanson then be guided a little by Ronder? This town was a queer one, odd in its prejudices, superstitions, sudden resentments. One false step might ruin everything. NOW ~and Ronder, gazing at the snow- white ceiling, hoped that Johanson would remember that he had not anywhere in the world a better friend—would Johanson mind a little plain speaking? He, Ronder. had heard one or two things. This was, like all small towns, a terrible place for gossip and Ronder had heard that Johanson (Continued on page 110) That desired individuality sought by the fashionable, is the dominant feature of our creations. Visitors to Florida are cordially invited to our new shop. he Fashion Beaux Arts m Deach, orida. ‘It pays to buy where you buy in safety”’ A. JAECKEL & CO. Jurriers Gxclusively Fifth Ave. Between 35" & 36" Sts. New York

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And was it really quite Johanson’ s place to meddle in this matter? Wasn’t he interfering a little in the province of others? Did he understand sufficiently as yet English con- ditions? He had heard that some hysterical women in Seatown had been proclaiming Johanson as a kind of miracle worker. That was a dangerous mood if it went too far. Those people down in Seatown had foreign blood in their veins—foreign blood, dangerous when aroused. And then another thing. Ronder did hope that Johanson did not mind this friendly word. But was Johanson wise to make such close friends just now of the Longstaffes? Excellent fellow, Tom Longstaffe. One of the best clergymen in the whole diocese. But Johanson, being a foreigner, did not in all probability quite realize what English people felt about Miss Longstaffe’s behavior. Poor girl! Ronder, who was a man of the world, could see clearly enough the extenuation for her fault. But a fault it was, a fault against God and the social laws of our country, and she had been, beyond doubt, ill-advised to return with her child to the place where it had occurred. He did not blame her; it was natural enough that she should wish to be with her father, but Johanson must remember that he was now beginning a splendid work that might mean the happiness and well-being of many thousands of human beings and that he had but recently engaged himself to a charming girl in the town and that people would talk. It was at this moment that Johanson said: “Turn over, please.” After Ronder turned over he had but little opportunity for further advice. Johan- son gave him that evening an excellent massage. His white flesh crimsoned. His stout legs were bent backwards, his thighs twisted, his arms stretched. Once or twice he uttered little cries, he panted, he writhed. Once he half rose in protest. At the end he sat up breathing very heavily. “Oh, dear me!” he cried. ‘You did give me a pommeling!” Johanson laughed. His round boyish countenance expressed nothing but happy friendliness. “Tf I hurt you—” he began. He stopped and then added reflectively, “It won’t last long.” “You didn’t mind what I said, did you?” asked Ronder, feeling for his spectacles. “Not at all. Not at all,” laughed Johan- son. HE third incident was brief. One evening, returning homewards, he ran into the Longstaffes’ to tell them some agreeable news about the lecture’s prospects. The door was open. No one was in the hall. He called. There was no answer. He crossed into the study and, knocking, entered. Little Tom Longstaffe, his face puckered with distress, was standing there. Mary Longstaffe, turning to leave the room, almost ran into Johanson. She was crying. He had seen her always strong, absolutely controlled, like a man rather than a woman. This was a new figure revealed to him. She brushed past him without speaking and left the room. “Why, Tom, what’s this?” he cried. Then, as Longstaffe looked at him in a kind of be- wilderment as though he had not recognized him, he went on quickly. “I’m sorry. should not have come in. I'll come to- morrow.” “No,” Longstaffe said, smiling through his trouble. “It’s all right. We’re a bit upset. Only a letter a beastly woman’s sent me about Mary. I was a fool to press her for her reasons for giving the church up. One ought always to leave people alone. But she was one of the last workers we had—” ‘About Mz ary? Johanson asked. “What about Mary “Oh, the usual thing. That until Mary leaves the place she must give up coming to the church. That I ought to understand the scandal it’s making, and so on and so on. I didn’t mean Mary to see it, of course, but she opened it by mistake. And now she says that she must go back to London, she and Billy, and the trouble is that now I don’t think I can get on without them. Having had them here these weeks mi ikes it so hard. And yet there’s my work. ‘ Johanson bres uthed deep. - Tha at’ s what this town is,” be said slowly. ‘‘After all these years they can so persecute you. - “It’s right,” Tom interrupted, “from their point of view. I saw it, of course, from the very beginning. It’s no animus against Mary, but the thing she stands for. Forgive her and you have to forgive so much. And they have children, girls of their own.” Johanson was silent, thinking steadily. “But not the cruelty,” he said slowly, “Not the persecution. And how can the 2y judge? With their own faults. . Who is good enough? It’s blindness, dead blind- ness.’ He looked so deeply distressed that Tom went up to him, drew his arm through his and so stood close to him. “Don’t you worry about our troubles,” he said. “We'll see the way through them.” “But I must worry,” Johanson answered. “You're my friend.” “Ves,” Tom answered, laughing. “But friendship doesn’t involve such burdens.” “Tt involves every burden,” Johanson answered. “It were as though it happens to me myself. I am you, you am I “Well, the sentiment’ s all right, even though the grammar’s a bit mixed,” said Tom. “It’s something having you for a friend. Yes, it is something.” Johanson turned away slowly. “I must go to Mary,” Tom said. “Come in to- morrow.” Johanson walked away, thinking deeply. For the first time he had forgotten that Maude was waiting for him. THE fourth incident was a dialogue and it stepped, one spring evening, out of the great west door of the cathedral. The shining stretch of grass was deserted. Perfect peace rested there. No human soul was to be seen until Ambrose Wistons pushed back the leather flap of the door and emerged. A moment later Johanson followed him. For a second Johanson hesitated. It had been dark in the cathedral, a changing shadow of purple dusk. Now, coming into the proper clear-minded air, he saw Wistons. He had spoken to him only once since that conversation of theirs and that had been for a moment in Orange Street, courteous, friendly, but with no contact. ~The man had warned him that there could be no friendship with him, but it was not friendship that Johanson needed. He admired this man as he admired no one else in Polchester, coldly, perhaps imperson- ally, but with a certainty of his courage and his passion for truth. He must speak to him even though he were snubbed. “Sir.” He came up with him. Wistons stopped abruptly. “I beg pardon, but it were such a lovely evening.” He paused, fingering his hat which he had taken off like an awkward boy. Wistons turned and held out his hand. “T’m very glad to see you, Mr. Johanson. I didn’t know you were in the cathedral.’ They walked slowly together across the green. ““T hope you'll forgive me,”’ Johanson said, “but I couldn’t help speak to you. I t hink often of the talk we had. It helped me so much and I thought I should tell you that.” "7 helped me, too,” Wistons answered gravely. ‘‘How are you getting along? I see you’ re giving a lecture. That’s good. I’m glad.’ “You think it’s good?” Johanson said eagerly. “‘I feared you might feel it imperti- nent of me after being here so little a time—” “No. No. Howcouid I? The more people that you can interest in such things as bodily fitness and healthy exercise, the better.’ “But it don’t stop at. that,’ ” Johanson went on still more eagerly. “The body’s so mixed with the rest. I’m beginning to think of so many things, Mr. Wistons, that maybe isn’t my business at all and yet if I stay with what is my business I’m not comfortable. I’d wish not to think of the other things but they won’t lie down.’ Wistons turned to him almost angrily. “Why do you come to me?” he asked. “When I can’t help myself, how can I help others?” They had stopped and stood looking at one another. “Because,”’ Johanson answered, ‘more than any other in this town you care for the truth. Many questions are coming to me now, Mr. Wistons, that never come to me before. Every day there are more. They won’t leave me alone. I wouldn’t speak to you now, but what you said the other day when we talked gave me encouragement.” Wistons looked at him for a long time with- out speaking. Then he said abruptly: “Will you come out to my house one evening, after this lecture, and have supper w ith me?’ “Yes, sir, I will.” “That’s good. I'll write to you ‘Thank you, sir. I'll be glad of it. Good- night.’ ‘ Good-night.” (To be continued in the March issue) HARPER’S BAZAR —

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for FEBRUARY 1926 Che New CHRAYSLER IMPERIAL AS FINE AS MONEY CAN BUILD UTMOST LUXURY FOR 2 to 7 PASSENGERS Q2 HORSEPOWER SO MILES PER HOUR ieee ee eee ee ee eee ee ee) T long and rare intervals men are able to produce objects of art or utility which they instinctively know to be superior to any that have preceded them. They know instinctively, too, that the conquest of public opinion will be complete and instantaneous. Such periods of high achievement are moments of deep elation—but they are moments which move the creators to remain silent rather than to pile words of praise upon their own accomplishments. Walter P. Chrysler and his associates are experi- encing an hour of profound satisfaction in present- ing to you the new Chrysler Imperial. They are reluctant to stress their own satisfaction in this announcement by endeavoring to arouse your expectations in advance. They have striven to create in the Chrysler Imperial such prodigies of performance and such a strikingly new and unusual expression of motor car beauty that the car would literally proclaim itself at first glance. They are confident that you will see in the Chrysler Imperial one more mile-stone in the evolutionary progress of the motor car toward a higher sphere of efficiency and saving. The Imperial 7-Passenger Sedan

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Considering what good clothes cost now- adays, to pack them in anything less than an Oshkosh Trunk is just plain silly. An attrattive bouklet describing Oshkosh Trunks will be sent you on request to 447 High Street, Oshkosh, Wisconsin. THE OSHKOSH TRUNK COMPANY Oshkosh, Wisconsin, and New York City THE HOUSE OF E. Barrington’s HARPER’S BAZAR ENCHANTMENTS Story (Continued from page 71) “Mamma, you have done your best, what is there to say? Maria has always had what she wanted. Don’t I remember that when we were children my doll-baby was given her for fear she should cry and be ill! If she liked my gown better than her own I gave it. Now she asks my heart. That also I give, for I know it is the truth that thwarting would kill her. Besides—if he cares for me no longer, I can’t withhold it if I would. But you will have so much pity for me as to let me go away. I can’t stay to witness it— I'll go to my friend, Sally Bird. Is not this reasonable?” Folding an unresponsive Sally in her arms Mrs. Siddons sobbed that it was. That she had taken the blow like a saint and martyr, that her whole heart bled for the patient sufferer. But Sally was not patient, far otherwise; the thing w was so bitter to her that until she digested it, she could not speak her mind or discipline her vigorous will. That time would come later. Now she was exploring with silent gaze a new world—the world of sorrow henceforward to be her home. She made no sign, but she, the linnet- throated singer of the family, gave up her singing. The House of Enchantments had lost its music—the first of many losses. She crept silently about the rooms in mute endur- ance. UT she did not go away. Maria became so ill that there could be no question of it. For two days her life was in danger, and both her parents needed Sally at every turn. On the fourth day Mrs. Siddons took a much needed rest, and Sally, going down to the drawing-room for a book, found Lawrence standing by the window. It was upon her before she could realize or retreat, and he had sprung forward and clasped her hands. Sally—O how I have yearned to see you! Id ared not come before, but have thought of you night and day and if I could but—” “What do you want of me, Mr. Lawrence?” she demanded, leaving her hands in his as if it mattered nothing. “ Maria is still very ill and my mamma is so tired that all now falls on me. I cannot delay.” “You can delay to save the sanity of the most miserable villain on earth,” he whispered hoarsely. “‘O Sally, never can your pure mind comprehend the tortures of a man who does evil and yet has the heart to feel his sins. Forgive me. Tell me you don’t suffer—that you have put the miscreant from the sanctuary of your heart. Tell me I am not odious in your eyes. ell me—” She drew her hands away then with quiet dignity. “Do you not ask for Maria, Mr. Lawrence?” “T do—I do. I scarcely know what I say, my soul is in such a tumult. How is the angelic sufferer?” “Very ill, but now out of danger. The doctors have resolved that when she can be moved she must go to Clifton, to our friend Mrs. Pennington, who has written most feelingly offering to take care of her. Tis the more necessary as my mother’s next tour is due before long.” “Thank God, thank all good influences that she recovers!” cried Lawrence. “But what of yourself? You look pale and sorrowful. O Sally, that a moment of mad- ness— She put him gently aside. “Mr. Lawrence, you'll excuse me if I return to my sister. We have a nurse-keeper, but she’s old and sleeps as much as she wakes. By calling at the door you can have what news you need of Maria. I shall desire Carter to tell you.” She glided softly from the room, and he remained like a man stupefied. Had he forgotten how darkly, mysteriously blue were Sally’s eyes, with what a sweet serenity of womanly dignity she moved, not in the least resembling her mother’s majesties, and how far more adapted to household uses? To see her, even with this wrong between them, was to become sensible of an unheard music, some spiritual harmony. Maria stimulated— she lashed the passions to their utmost, ravaged them, tattered them, wasted her frail strength in tumults that called out all the emotion in his own nature and left him drained. Sally was infinitely soothing— like moonlight sleeping on the sea, with all the soft mysterious depths beneath lulled into tranquillity but unfathomable. And for beauty—there he was bewildered. There were moments when what her own mother called “the dazzling frightful sort of beauty of Maria” swept him so completely away that he could neither take his eyes nor his heart from her, the dazzlement catching him like the candle the moth until he became “One color and one splendor with the flame,” and so, like other moths, he burnt his wings and extinguished the candle. For Lawrence’s trouble was the overplus of feeling, not its lack, and now he suffered horribly. Perhaps to a man illness is always more or less repellent, the symptoms and the necessities hateful. The oppression on her chest was less, the cough more relaxed and so forth. Good news, but how can love flourish in an atmosphere of medicine bottles and poultices? Certainly his could not. And there was Sally, not so remote after that first interview, not so calm, trembling a little, flushing a little in his presence, holding herself away with too visible an effort. At last, when the anxiety about Maria was relieved and her journey to Clifton near at hand, he came in one day, and found Sally in the drawing-room surrounded by bowls of roses, for it was now jate June, with a lap full of them for Maria’s bedside, and the — and flush of the roses in her adorable ace He caught her wildly in his arms, crushing the white dimity and blue ribbons and the roses against him, and kissed her lips, in- satiate. ‘Sally, my heart’s darling, it was a mistake, a frightful error. It was you—always you. May God do so unto me and more also if aught but death part thee and me.” Was it easy for her to remember those terrible seeking eyes up-stairs? It had always been Sally’s conviction that the whole thing was a blunder and no more—that his heart was wholly hers and this supposed passion for Maria but a ripple on the surface of a great deep. The first question was— could she forgive? And that answered itself, for the warmth of his lips, his dear presence, the weakness concealed in such masculine strength and beauty were so sweet to her, that the very word forgiveness melted in love’s music from her mind. She clung to him as if they had never been separated and felt him all hers. Maria was wholly forgotten, Maria, whose unnaturally sharpened senses caught his voice in the room below and cruelly questioned as to who might be talking with him—what was the delay? The roses came up by a servant who let drop carelessly that Miss Siddons was with Mr. Lawrence and madam about to join them. ADAM did join them presently, and i then the fountains of the great deep were broken up, indeed. Sally, pale and resolved, confronted her, supported on Lawrence’s arm, and as Mrs. Siddons entered it needed no words to tell her the truth. “No, no!” she cried, and put out her hands to ward it off. But that was impossible. It must be faced. Lawrence spoke more simply, after a more manly fashion than he had done before. It is probably true that he felt his constancy to Sally of more importance than his infidelity to Maria. At all events that was the view he pressed on the nearly distracted Mrs. Siddons. It was Sally who had been wronged, who must have justice done her. No doubt he deserved to be turned out of the house, to be rejected for- ever and by both. That would have been Sid’s verdict, and scarcely a man but would echo it. But here again Mrs. Siddons’s perfect understanding of his type, which was also her own, saved him. Sally, beautiful and good as an angel—who could marvel if he resumed his first fidelity? He had erred— terribly erred, but men were like that. Did not every day, every drama testify it? She spoke with anger that almost touched fury at one moment, then with despair as Maria crossed her mind. But Lawrence was at her feet, Sally’s arms, her faithful support in difficulty, about her, and gradually she softened and could not do otherwise. It may seem strange that it never occurred to any one of the triad that the man’s nature was unstable as water. That no woman could trust him, that what he really pursued was beauty in all her moon-changes, and that to beauty and beauty only could he ever be faithful. No, they were all alike convinced, as the beauty-saturated temperament always is, that the last development is eternal, be it for bane or blessing. When she had time to reflect, only one idea emerged in perfect clarity in the mother’s mind—thankfulness that she had never told Sid the complexities of the strange love- affair. And as for Maria—alas, for Maria!— it was becoming too sadly certain that her first lover would be her last. : She grew frailer and more exacting daily. The doctors pressed her retreat to the purer air of Clifton, and when that necessity was revealed to her, including, as it did, the separation from Lawrence, she sank into 3 kind of apathy which they hoped would numb the edge of the knife when the blow must be dealt. It appeared to do so. She was so dulled in mind. so wearied in body that when her mother broke to her the news that Lawrence’s allegiance had returned to Sally, (Continued on page 114)

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114 It a fi bd CRANE’S KID FINISH ARGENTONE - Oz.c.P.Cco.'26 almost seems as if you just couldn’t have a wedding withont Crane’s Kid Finish—it is used so universally for the announcements and invitations. Weddings demand the finest quality in every detail and, for its purpose, Crane’s Kid Finish is the finest paper in the world. As are all Crane’s Writing Papers. Not only for wed- dings but for every occasion, where paper should express the social standing and personality of the writer, there is Crane paper of faultless style and superlative quality. ? Cranes, Va CARRILLE . CORDLINEAR, EARLY PURITAN LINEN LAWN QUARTERED OAK RAVELEDGE VELLUM GREYLAWN OLD STYLE The visiting cards of husband and wife must match in the engraving style, the color the engraving and the shade of - cards. Crane’s Satin Finish or Crane’s Kid nish, extra super-fine quality, in pearl grey shade, is the standard for correctness. EATON, CRANE ¢ PIKE COMPANY, 225 Fifth Avenue, New York THE HOUSE OF E. Barrington’s HARPER’S BAZAR ENCHANTMENTS Story (Continued from page 112) she took it as if in a dream. Indeed, it dazed her. “Poor Sally!”’ was all she said, and her head fell aside on her pillow and the miracu- lous black lashes shadowed a dying fire in her eyes. Then, very slowly: “Poor Lawrence! Poor me!’ Another pause, then in the same languid dreaming voice: “‘ How strange it all is. How strange! I never thought—but then I was so young. The lines, mamma, I’ve heard you say them. Say them now. I want them. How does it begin—‘As flies to wanton boys—’” Mrs. Siddons, with tears repeated: in her voice, “ As flies to wanton boys, so we to the gods. They slay us for their sport.” and then broke down. “O my child, don’t talk like that. You'll live to be happy with a beautiful young lover of your very own, and need be obliged to no one’s leavings—not even our dear Sally’s.’ Maria smiled from her dream, and said no more. She did not see Lawrence hefore she left for Clifton, where her mother settled her with the kind Mrs. Pennington before starting on the Midland tour. Mrs. Siddons’s mind was freer of anxiety. The girl had borne the journey well. She was to be permitted a little exercise, her appetite had improved, she had made no reference to Lawrence. “The justly admired daughter of Melpomene,’ as the newspapers called the Tragic Muse, left her with more hope than had yet been her portion. = Sally and Lawrence were supremely happy in London, where even the placid Sid’s supervision was removed, for he attended his brilliant wife as manager. Sally indeed was inordinately happy. It breathes in the hurried notes she wrote to Lawrence— “O time, time, fly quickly till Thursday morning! I bought the ring for you, I have worn it, kissed it. You have it, keep it, love it. And now again her linnet voice was heard singing about the house. It was then she wrote to Lawrence— “T never should have sung as I do had I never seen you. I never should have com- posed at all. The first song I set to music was that complaint of Thomson’s to the Nightingale. You then lived in my heart, in my head, in every idea. You did not love me then. But mow—O mortification, grief, agony, are all forgot!” What made the best half of her bliss was its security. Lawrence had been faithless once. He had suffered, suffered. Now she knew she was safe—never again would he risk that cold wind of desolation blowing between them. Her heart unfolded all its secret lovelinesses to him and he was supremely blessed. UT Destiny never sleeps. Even while they walked under the lime tree—its green now growing a little old and faded, a letter from the kind Mrs. Pennington was pursuing the mother. Maria was drooping terribly. The anxiety was very heavy, and more and worse, she was developing a fixed idea, obstinate, not to be argued with, that Sally must not, should not marry Lawrence. Into this flower of hate her long unnatural silence and brooding had blossomed. What was to be done? Mrs. Siddons, distracted between her business and the entanglement, at once wrote to London commanding Sally to join her without a moment’s loss of time that she might discuss family matters with her, but otherwise throwing no light on the subject, and Sally much alarmed, after the tenderest farewell to Lawrence, joined her mother in Birmingham and in a day or two was dis- patched to Clifton. Lawrence waited a little, hoping for a letter, fixed a certain mail as the limit, and when it brought nothing his ungovernable passion surged over and an hour later he himself was on the way to Birmingham that he might see the mother and probe the mystery. Was Miss Siddons there, he asked, knocking loudly at the door of Mrs. Siddons’s lodgings. No, Miss had left the day before. What! and without a word to him! He was up the stair in a moment to confront Mrs. Siddons. He found the poor woman trying to snatch a little rest in the parlor of her lodgings, and broke in on her unannounced, his face so wild and pale that at first she started up in terror and put her hand on the bell to ring for help. But the sight of her calmed him for a moment, and still more the sight of a letter open before her in the writing he knew so well. He choked down the hysteria in his throat. “T will--I must know—why Sally has left without a word for me. What dreadful secret lies behind? I have rushed to you, madam, without sleep or food to hear your sentence of life or death.” Neither he nor Mrs..Siddons could discuss the mutter calmly nor like ordinary people. Her great eyes dwelt on him with somber pity in the tragic pause before she spoke and bad» him ‘summon his fortitude to bear the stroke of doom,” an intimation that sent him into a paroxysm of rage, which she herself described afterwards as “the conduct of a wretched madman.” He really was a madman for that moment of suspense and terror. “Lawrence, I would have spared you if I could. My heart was never merciless,” she said solemnly, “but you must now act us becomes a man. Sally has gone to Maria’s aid, and, seeing the desperate condition of her health, ‘has resolved, unprompted by her who now addresses you, to break her en- gagement with you once and for all. She feels—” Here he interrupted, and it can serve no purpose to record his ravings. One thought alone emerged clearly—that if Maria were doomed that could be no reason why Sally should be condemned to life-long misery. Mrs. Siddons shook her head. “Alas, my friend, you think not what you say! With what feelings can Sally behold the face of the man who has thus doomed her sister? Maria’s last hope of life broke down when you deserted her. And Sally herself is frail. You know the asthmatic attacks which beset her when she is distressed bodily or mentally. Ask yourself as I entreat you whether she can hope for peace in your society. With her mother perfect calm can be assured, but in your care—’ “Calm—I can be calm as a summer's day with my Sally!” raved the lover. “My nature is devoted to calm, and her sweet company—” She looked at him sibyl-like, with deep mysterious eyes, as completely dev oid of any sense of humor as himself. “Young man, you little know your own weakness. You know not the domestic trials which have at length given me the serenity and self-control you lack. It is said by the great Dr. Johnson that the man must be a prodigy of virtue who does not tire of an ailing wife, and sad experience has taught me that repeated illness soon wearies them. In my own case, Mr. Siddons— But that concerns us not now. Sally’s decision is irrevocable. No, young man—no I will not listen. Will you force me to solicit Mr. Siddons’s protection for his family?” Bo T it appeared that Lawrence was past caring what he forced her to. At last, nearly as frantic as himself, the poor lady rushed at the bell, seeing which Lawrence flung himself out of the room and down-stairs. She snatched pen and ink and wrote an in- coherent letter to Mrs. Pennington on the spot. “My dear soul, Mr. L. has left without letting a soul know whither he is gone. His hopes with regard to Sally, I, with her own concurrence, told him were entirely at an end, representing at the same time the situation of her sister. I pray God his frenzy may not impel him to some desperate action. Mr. Siddons knows nothing of all this. The situation of dear Sally when one recurs to her original partiality for this wretched madman, placing her in so delicate a situation, we thought it best to keep the matter entirely concealed. I hope it will always be a secret to Mr. S., as it could answer no end but to enrage him.” She paused distractedly, and continued: “If he should go to Clifton he will ruin himself forever and make us the talk of the whole world. It is dreadful to think of, and the effect on my poor Maria. His mind is tortured, I suppose, with the thought of hasting her end. AWRENCE was in Clifton before the letter. If Sid had been confided in his robust stupidity might have been a strong wall of defense, but the unfortunate Mrs. Penning- ton was now to be put in the forefront of the battle in his place. Lawrence was no sooner arrived in Clifton than he dashed off a letter to her in his best Dick Swiveller vein. “Madam, if you are generous and delicate, not only the step I take will be excused, but you will render me the service I solicit. My name is Lawrence, a man charged (I trust untruly) with having inflicted pangs on one lovely Creature, which in their bitterest extent he himself now suffers from her sister. I love—exist but for Miss Siddons and am decisively reyecced by her. I have confidence in requesting tnat you will at a fit but speedy moment give the enclosed paper into her own hands. By a profligate daring I might see Miss Siddons, but I cannot. Yet something I must do, and what better than at once repose a confidence in a woman of sense and honor, trust implicitly to her candor, nor believe I shall suffer by it until the suffering I have done it and perhaps all of my (Continued on page 116) comes.

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116 COLORS BORN OF SUNSHINE The Meadowbrook Girl— who is she? Hundreds of letters and comments from the exclusive corridor- shops at world famous beach hotels, from the reat style emporiums of New York, from shops favored by the country club setever where, have The Meadow- named her brook Girl For sucha girl Meadow- brook ‘port hats were y designed. A certain vivacious artistry definite and sports influence born of their California origin appeals to her love pf Os ay It is, after all, an intuitive discernment of smartness that sets her apart. The use the phrase so pens. “ea —no other three words so accurately de- scribes that distinctive type of American fem- ininity that brings such color to brilliant polo matches in California eee summers in Maine eee alumnae teas at old New a a | SPORTS HATS Town and’ Country That Mea dowbrooks should so noticeably have met with her approval everywhere is but natural. The store in your city which you de send upon for the best is : one that can show you Meadow- rooKs. California SIMON MILLINERY COMPANY Meadowbrook Building, 989 Market Street, San Francisco Eastern Sales Office, Louis STRAUSS & Son, 65 West 39th Street, New York HARPER’S BAZAR |THE HOUSE OF ENCHANTMENTS E. Barrington’s Story (Continued from page 114) future happiness is at stake and in your power. A letter directed to Mr. Jennings to be left till called for at Gloucester House will find me. You know it is right I should conceal my name.” But if Lawrence were frenzied beyond the verge of the absurd, the matron wrote calmly. She appointed a meeting, and he hurled a palpitating reply through the twopenny post. “My blessings on you. But do not say that I come to add to your distress and affliction. God knows I meant not that! Sally, dear angel, shall I indeed see you? Dearest, dearest friend, adieu! I will be composed. You shall see I can.” UT that unusual spectacle Mrs. Penning- ton was not privileged to behold. We may see her in her neat drawing-room with prim Chippendale chairs ranged along the wall, a round and polished table in the middle, on the wall grandmothers in mob caps and modestly folded handkerchiefs over their bosoms, a large porcelain bowl of pot-pourri by Mrs. Pennington’s black satin elbow, and Mrs. Pennington’s heart in a delicious thrill of agitation, f romantic pleasure, half alarm. But en the incandescent lover burst into the m she began to realize the nature of her task. He bowed at the door, then cast a searching glance about him. “Your servant, madam. Miss Siddons not here?” He stood and Mrs. Pennington instinc- tively rose to her feet. “She is not here, sir. In the present agitating circumstances she preferred to make me her mouthpiece.” “What? Have I been trained here on a false pretense? Is it intended that the idol of my soul is not to hear my pleadings? For if so—” “Pray be seated, Mr. Lawrence. You oblige me to stand. If you will be calm—” “What am I but calm! If I were to give a loose to the lava of the feelings within me, they would sear even your cold and discreet heart, madam. O the proprieties—and a man’s heart breaking!” He flung out his arm with a passionate gesture which, catching a vase of Bristol glass, hurled it in fragments to the ground. “An emblem of my life!” he said sardoni- cally, pushing the fragments together with his foot. “It shall be replaced to-day. No, madam, I will not sit. My feelings do not admit it, and besides I have been deceived— I expected an interview with Miss Siddons, and though I raise no objection to your presence as a support to her sensitive spirits, I will not be balked.” He was walking swiftly up and down the room, while the good Mrs. Pennington trying to keep a clear head in the whirlwind of passion, despaired of dealing with the hand- somest, most unmanageable young man she had ever seen in her life. She could only sit down and wonder if Sally, stationed in the dining-room, could hear the storm through the folding doors. “Tf you would be calm, sir—” “Calm! I am calm. How could I be calmer? Where is Miss Siddons?” “She is in attendance on her dying sister, and if that intimation doesn’t calm you—” “Fortunate Maria! Would that the oblivion of death awaited me also.” “Tt awaits us all!” Mrs. Pennington austerely reminded him. “But not now—not here! Yet it can: it shall! Mrs. Pennington, I solemnly vow before an all-seeing Almighty that unless Miss Siddons is produced this very instant, I will die by my own hand at your feet!” He paused, looking her wildly in the face. And whether he meant it in earnest or did not mean it, Mrs. Pennington could not for the life of her tell. Her conviction was that he was mad. What did one do with madmen? Pity? Sympathy? Ridicule? “‘ And, furthermore, if I have not the sacred assurance from her own dear lips, now, here, this instant, that she will give me her hand when Maria is released, I will go through the house until I find her and she shall witness the death of a man who loved her to distrac- tion. No—don’t doubt me, madam. Here is the awful means!” E SHOWED her an end of something glittering within his pocket which Mrs. Pennington took to be a pistol. Terror gave her firmness. She permitted a quiet smile of ridicule to play over her lips. “No, no, Mr. Lawrence, I’m not to be frightened that way. I’ve seen such scenes much better acted before. Try it a second time! You might rant it a little more success- fully. May we not have done with all this, and sit down to a comfortable talk when I can give you my reasons, and a glimmer— not more than a glimmer of hope?” ““A glimmer? O madam, a star in mid- night to guide the weary wanderer? [I'll hear, I'll listen. Curse my folly for alarming my good angel. Here, I am—composed, calm! Only speak.” He flung himself into a low chair, leaning forward with clasped hands, so unspeakably handsome, so unpardonably selfish, that whether to box his ears or weep for him Mrs. Pennington could not tell. But in measured accents she took up the tale. “Tf I could see good sense and composure which made you worthy of such an angel as Sally, I might be prepared to be your advocate for an interview. I sympathize with you—” “God bless you for that admission,” cried the lover, with an attempt upon her hand. “Ves, but only while you behave!” (‘T talked to him as if he were an infant!” she said later to Mrs. Siddons.) “If you do, you shall have daily news of our dear invalid and—” “Of course I am very sorry for Maria, but she should govern herself for the sake of those about her. Indeed, she should!” “So should others, Mr. Lawrence. What do I hear from Mrs. Siddons—”’ She extracted a letter from her pocket, and read aloud: “*T was so shaken by his wild transports yesterday that on rising to ring for some hartshorn and water I should have fallen upon the floor if he had not caught me at the instant, and was totally incapacitated to play at night.’ Is this decent, Mr. Lawrence?” “Was passion ever decent, madam? Does the man love who can control himself ? Really, truly love? No, never! Love is a torrent. But Sally—Sally?” “Cease the horrible desperation of your conduct, and you shall see her. So much I may promise. Now go. And—stay! I have a thought. You can’t come to the house, but I will meet you occasionally in the field behind ‘The Bear’ and give you news. That is, if you will be calm!” What was it in Lawrence that gained these women to toleration and pity? Perhaps the absurd youthfulness of his attitude, perhaps— God knows what! Women are like that. A man would have shaken or kicked him into decency. But on this promise he consented to depart and got himself away, standing in the street to fix with a gloomy stare a window which he took for Sally’s. It was the housemaid’s, but the intention was all. Mrs. Pennington wrote passionate pages to Mrs. Siddons who responded in kind: “O my dear friend, how my heart bleeds for all the trouble and anxiety you have and will endure on my account! I shudder to think on the effect the wretched madman’s frenzy has had on you,” and much more to the same effect. As for Mrs. Pennington, she ended by catching the infection and sweeping into the full tide of romance, sousing in it, head over ears. They met, and daily tidings were given of the sisters. Lawrence really exulted in his conquest of Mrs. Pennington’s aversion —as the proof of his power. He wrote to her: “Tt made my enemy my friend. Dear madam, and after this can you think of treating me as a common man? ‘* *To take her in her heart’s extremest hate And yet to win her!’ “Not a fine broiling day that comes but I shall be thinking of the field behind ‘The Bear,’ and my much-enduring friend trudging backwards and forwards for very life, regard- less of complexion, fatigue or character (for the crowds that were looking at us!!) and then flumping down, never minding what she be about, upon a dusty bank, the shoes worn out, the legs unable to support her, and all but the kind heart exhausted in the effort! Was ever love-lorn shepherdess under the hawthorn so interesting as Mrs. Pennington under that scrubbed oak, with not one atom of romance about her, as she says, and only the victim of it in others!” NDEED, Lawrence was right. By this time Mrs. Pennington was as romance- bitten as the rest and enjoying the tragedy to the full. She, like the rest, soothed him, helped him, suffered for him, and not one ot them told him the truth about his absurdities and selfish madness—for to that it really towered. Sid would have dealt with him better. Meanwhile for Maria the sands were running out swiftly now—not kindly nor peacefully, but in a hard resolve and fixed urpose. . estes cared nothing for her. Her passion for him he had alluded to as “a sickly fancy.” He did not care whether she lived or died, except in so far as it affected his hopes with Sally. : 3 Very well, then! A muserable dying girl would show him that she still had power— still could sway his fate. Worn out, little more than a child dying with all her beauty bruised and broken like a trampled flower, she had no fear of death—she believed the.e was mercy in that dim land for such as she and (Continued on page 117)

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hd Seer wa Ew ome wa Sewyw Fee we OM Ve wo wi Se for FEBRUARY 1926 THE HOUSE OF ENCHANTMENTS E. Barrington’s Story (Continued from page 116) that, as she said to Mrs. Pennington, her severe sufferings would be sufficient expia- tion. That did not trouble her mind. She cast it all aside and then turned resolutely to her last earthly purpose. There was but a very little time left—the sands were falling away now with a dreadful swift smoothness and she had said little, reserving herself for the one indomitable effort. Very weary, very near the end, in the last sad reappearance of her passionate beauty, Sally, sitting by her, thought she slept, and prayed that the end might come in that ace. She sat, her own eyes fixed on the yellowing autumn trees before the window, watching the fluttering fall of the leaves in sorrowiul silence. Her way lay dark before her. Only one light shone steady as a distant star—her love for Lawrence, obscured by black clouds of fear and remorse, for how could she look on the piteous sight before her without the ghastly knowledge that that and no other was the price to be paid for her joy? A dim almost vanishing hope that some day, somehow, all might come right was all that was left to her, but that was much, for it saved her from despair. No sound, no motion, but when she stirred from her dream, Maria’s wide dark eyes were open and fixed on her with the strangest expression—yearning and terror combined. She thought the last moment had come and sprang up to call her mother. But no—the faint hand held her, the great eyes entreated, and now—now the lips, burning with fever, were moving. “Sally, I must speak to you.” “Ves, darling, darling—speak!” She knelt and laid her cheek beside Maria’s, expecting some last precious words of love and pity. “Sally, you must not, shall not marry him. He is a bad man. I can’t rest in my grave if you do. I sicken at his very name.” The revulsion was so frightful that she drew herself apart, staring at Maria in horror. Her voice that had been but a whisper for days, was clear and strong, a brilliant color burnt in her cheeks, her eyes flamed resplend- ent. This was the frightful beauty of which her mother had spoken, returning for the last time before it sank in ashes. “You shall not go—you shall hear. Look at his work—look at me dying in torment and say can you marry the man who has murdered me? O promise me, promise me, Sally, never to marry him. How can I bear it? How can I rest if you do? And he will break your heart as he has mine.” What could be said? She took the trem- bling hands in hers. “My darling sister, don’t, don’t think of such things at such a time. Let me call our mother. You are worse, you are half killing yourself.” “T am not worse. I am wonderfully, mar- velously better. I may even get well. I feel it! Stay, Sally—stay and promise me. It doesn’t agitate me, but I shall die now—here, if you don’t promise. I may live if you will.” “O Maria—don’t tear my heart!” cried Sally. “You must know it’s impossible. I shall call my mother.” The poor child took it to mean the marriage was impossible. “Then I am content—even content to die. Call my mother now,” she said, and sank back on the pillow, while Sally, pale and trembling, ran for her mother and Mrs. Pennington. HEY came running also, and Maria, now sinking visibly, caught the last oppor- tunity. “Mamma, Mrs. Pennington, Sally has promised me never, never to think of marry- ing him. How could she be happy with such a man? And as for me— Look at me! Sally, confirm your promise before them.” Sally broke into wild weeping, scarcely to be heard for sobbing. “I did not promise, dear, dying angel, but I will and do if you require it—” What else Was possible in the awful moment? And indeed looking at that hopeless ruin, it seemed that joy could never again matter, but life must crawl on a broken wing hence- forward, let her promise what she would. “Darling Sally, I thank you, I love you. ly dear mother, Mrs. Pennington, bear Witness. Sally, give me your hand. You Promise never to be his wife. Mother Mrs. Pennington, lay your hands on hers. You understand? Bear witness! Sally, this Promise is sacred. Remember me, and God less you.” She dominated the scene entirely and moved them as she would, and then—that last cruelty carried through with all the solemnity and feeling of a deep religious rite, she addressed herself patiently to death. The fire died slowly and her life darkened with it. he Sweetest love and serenity looked up at them from her failing eyes. Her heart’s wish Was Satisfied, and as she turned from earth to faven without fear she met the enfolding arms of the darkness and its veil fell solemnly about her. Mrs. Pennington wrote to Lawrence when all was over. “What after this, my friend, can you say to Sally? She has entreated me to give you this detail, to say that the impression is sacred, indelible, that it cancels all bonds and she entreats you not to profane this awful season by a murmur. If you can sanctify passion with friendship you may yet be dear to their hearts. When I looked at her a few hours before she was shut forever from our sight I beheld a strong character and expression of divinely solemn and grave composure, but not one trace of youth remaining.” No, youth had died long before her death. It was not in youth to plan that last terrible vengeance, and so depart content. But Lawrence raged on—more frantically than ever, now that hope was done. He wrote like a madman. “T have played deeply for her, and you think she still will escape me? I'll tell you a secret. It is possible she may. Mark the end. You have all played your parts admirably. If the scene you have so accurately described is mentioned by you to one human being I will pursue your name with execration.” HAT should be the end of the story? Quiet passing into grave resignation— life devoted to memories sacred and terrible, friendship but with that weeping ghost forever between them? That is not life, especially with a man like Lawrence, a woman like Sally Siddons. She loved him. She thought of her promise later as one cruelly extorted by an agony more painful than the rack. She attributed its extortion to Maria’s unquenched passion of love and vengeance, and therefore her calm good sense felt that it was scarcely binding. And Lawrence behaved exactly as he had behaved all through. She might have fore- seen it. For a short time he besieged her furiously, sparing her in nothing, and it seems that she must have relented. But after some vain attempts, many wild words, and a time which she thought very short, the sun-god’s gold glance fell on other planets revolving about his orb and she knew it, slowly recognized that neither hope nor trust could be built on a heart that memory could not touch nor any fidelity hold. Still—she loved him. stancy he lacked. “‘T have once or twice seen Mr. Lawrence by accident, and I thought I should have dropped, the Sunday before last in Kensington Gardens, when I passed him so close that I might have touched him. Whenever I meet his eyes with that glance that pierces through and through one, it is like an electric stroke to me. I passed his door, too, the other day, and my heart sank.” So she wrote to one she trusted. And again: “T cannot shut my eyes to conviction. I see him as he is. Yet, O forgive me if I sometimes cast over him the brilliant veil of enchantment which hid his errors from our fascinated minds. I cannot help seeing him sometimes as he was, or rather as he appeared to be. It should be my constant prayer to be always kept at the same distance from that being whose fascination I have not the power to escape if I should be drawn within the circle of his magic.” It should have been her prayer, but was it? It mattered little enough now, for another lover, one not to be repelled and whom no prayers could move, was drawing very near the weary girl. All things grew sadder to her one by one. A hand, awful but tender, was slowly extinguishing the few lights that lit a life grown too sad for endurance. None of the tempests which marked her sister’s going ruffled hers. She bore her sorrow with gentle dignity, complained little, hoped nothing, very gradually retreated within the fastness of her own soul and there faced the past with quiet fortitude. It was the easier because she knew that the future need not trouble her. And so, as it seemed, willing to grieve her friends as little as possible, she slipped out of life, and dying made no sign. It was five years since Maria’s stormy spirit had fled, and she but twenty-seven. She had the con- UT the world goes on and sun-gods shine, though the flowers wither in the snow. That strange man carried through his life the cruel charm and faithless faithfulness to beauty which had wrecked the sisters. No heart could be steeled against him. Even their mother forgave him, though she knew well how soon even Sally was forgotten. “These violent delights have violent ends,” she wrote to Mrs. Pennington. And yet, before she died, she expressed the wish that Lawrence might be one of those to bear her to the grave. His spell was as strong upon her as on her daughters, though (Concluded on page 120) | | | | } } | | | 117 FROM THE CHAMPS ELYSEES DIRECT TO FIFTH AVENUE our own creations in Sport Dresses and Suits in the newest materials of the leading French silk houses Crepe de Chine Dresses Two-piece Silk Suits Jersey Suits When in Paris call on us. Spring collection now ready. KARGERE 636 Fifth Avenue, New York (at 51st Street) Afternoon and Evening Dresses Paris: 39, Avenue des Champs Elysees for the Southland.

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118 . MIAMI BEACH NEW YORK PALM BEACH Jay-Tborpe 24-26 West 57th Street Black Chantilly lace over gayly flowered chiffon blends a subtle fabric effect which adds to the striking personality of this after- noon or informal dinner gown —an early Spring creation. Exclusive Jay-Thorpe model Baron de or cloth of silver, for I consider these mate- rials destroy all atmosphere of poetry and romance connected with a bride. Never- theless, an attractive young wonian belong- ing to the Russian colony disproved my assertion by appearing in her bridal outfit, made by Mademoiselle Chantal, which, though made of a heavy silk mousseline and embroidered in white floss silk flowers, was quite lovely. White satin bands were placed horizontally, as well as vertically, on the bodice and formed a cross. The veil was of the same embroidered mousseline and long enough to form a train, the gown itself being fairly short. Vionnet’s contribution was worn by a well- known dark beauty from the Argentine. The gown was vieux rose dégradé, narrow of bodice but distended below. The material was em- broidered all over in golden scales increasing in size toward the bottom, a very lovely gown. With this Madame de J. wore a scarf twisted about the neck and hanging down to the ground on each side. It was of pale blue gauze, shot with golden flowers, and edged by metal fringe. An ensemble most becoming. Madeleine Vionnet at her best. PEAKING of Vionnet reminds me of the lovely “undies,” as one says in England, I was shown at that house—combinations to be worn between skin and gown. One of these was designed in black chiffon flowered and edged with Chantilly lace, while another entirely of rose petals of chiffon was as lovely as Vionnet alone can make them. I intend, at an early date, to treat the subject of modern dessous more thoroughly. Princess K. was much admired in one of the most original pajama suits of the season. She wore it with “snap,” and I imagine every woman present rushed to Mary Nowitzky’s establishment to order a similar suit next day. It consisted of a short black satin jacket, semi-fitting and flaring considerably on the hips. The trousers were made of a checked Bianchini brocade, black, jade-green, and silver. The same lady later on changed into a long black workman’s blouse, made of a sheer material held in by a white leather belt and Worn over a waistcoat and long trousers of White satin. Both costumes were voted a great success and much applauded. Lady A. came next, in a Callot gown, the non plus ultra of Pélégance de grande allure. The garment she wore was green with an all- over brocade-like embroidery of violets in different shades, interwoven with golden threads. It was sleeveless and had an under- dress of flesh-colored chiffon held together by a jeweled clasp. Another lady appeared in a pale green Callot ball gown consisting of a net skirt of many flounces, in which large roses and a bunch of grapes figured prominently. Most distinguished, even if exotic, was Madame I. R.’s appearance. She is, of course, a very famous beauty, and is dressed ex- clusively by Worth. Tall and slim, she glided magnificently across the room in her excessively short black mousseline de soie gown over a flesh foundation. There were inset bands of rose chiffon running up as far as the deep waist-line on each side of the skirt, giving an impression of continuing the lady’s flesh-colored hose right up to her waist. A sash of pale blue chiffon with long ends reaching down to the ground completed this original gowh. Mrs. V. C. came in her lovely black net gown from Lanvin. The skirt, made in tiers, was bordered by a thick ruche of net with silver edges, which made the skirt stand out considerably. Pink silver-embroidered bows gave a youthful touch to what might easily have been a somber-looking gown. HE admirable presence of Mademoiselle C. S. seems never to have been as notice- able as when she appeared in her Lanvin gown composed entirely of silver bugles with designs of rubies on the bodice. Noticeable was the peculiar décolleté effect, both front and back, produced by medallions left hanging loose which, when displaced, revealed the skin. It isn’t everybody who can wear this model; it needed Mademoiselle S. to carry it off. Madame C. presented to us a beautiful Premet creation which might have been termed a harmony in cyclamen and silver. The gown was made entirely of the new lusterless pailletted material, so much in vogue just at present. It seemed molded to her figure. The bodice had silver lines con- verging toward an ornament low down in front, though not the least interesting part of this stunning ensemble was Madame C.’s gray-blue hair, excessively short and parted in the back. Miss Grace M. of New York wore Lelong’s new chiffon evening gown, chartreuse in color with a very full skirt and bands of rhinestone embroidery, starting at the back and tied ' into a true lovers-knot, in front of the bodice, Meyer’s HARPER’S BAZAR A PARISIAN NIGHT’S‘° ENTERTAINMENT Article (Continued from page 55) the ends falling low down onto the skirt. With this gown she combined one of Lelong’s famous brocade evening wraps in yellow lavender, and silver, trimmed with wide bands of white fur. ‘THE Princess T., a Russian lady, came in one of Irfé’s most striking gowns. It appeared to be green Georgette and had appliqué velvet flowers in cyclamen shades on the skirt. A shawl of the same material trimmed with fringe and the same velvet flowers completed this ensemble, truly typical of this new and very successful house. The Princess, a tall and handsome woman, wore a headband covering the forehead almost en- tirely made of emeralds and rhinestones em- broidered on gold net. Madame de R. appeared in a striking Louiseboulanger creation of black satin. This dress was distinguished by the much dis- cussed Boulanger loops resulting in a modern- ized bustle effect (this designer’s exclusive invention). This black satin gown made the wearer look slim, young, and graceful, though, being unusual, Madame Boulanger’s depar- ture is being much discussed. Madame M. M. of the Comédie Francaise, a statuesque beauty, wore a draped white velvet gown which had been made by Drecoll, It scintillated. There were crystal em- broideries, rhinestones and pearls, and there was a length of velvet thrown over one shoulder left hanging, almost trailing, at the back and edged with fringe. I was told Madame Madeleine, Drecoll’s _ presiding genius, had created this model especially for this splendid looking woman. A sensation was caused by Madame de Y,, slim and oriental looking, with straight hair cut across her forehead. She wore a J. Suzanne Talbot creation inspired by Egypt. The lady was draped in white crépe and had what might be called an Egyptian loin-cloth embroidered in gold and pearls wrapped closely about her between waist and knees. With this she wore a scarlet velvet circular cape, lined with gold and edged with a peculiar kind of ostrich feathers at present quite 4 la mode. A pause occurred. A change in clothes— an evidently welcome interruption, for one of the ladies promptly called out for information about hats, while another wished to know about new gloves, about hose and shoes. The word “‘rouge”’ struck my ear (this from a lady trés mal maquillée, as one says in French). This proved to be decisive, for I felt I might in this case be of use and destroy the erroneous impression that to buy a box of rouge and dab on its contents was sufficient to make one young and ravishingly beautiful. My theme, “Can a woman get along with just one kind of rouge?” caused quite a stir. Looking at the question from this angle was evidently new to many, who, having bought the shade considered fashionable at the moment, used it on all occasions. ““Mesdames,” I began, “has it ever struck you that an artist does not paint a landscape with a single tube of color, for how could he graduate and shade his tones according to light and subject? Painting one’s face is as much an art as painting a picture. An art which requires intuition. Have any of you ladies given a thought to the paling reflections under trees, to reflections thrown on the skin by colored gowns, or to the rejuvenating effect of a sunlit beach? These may at times be startlingly unexpected and should be given gravest consideration. The use of cosmetics is dangerous unless it is accompanied by the fundamental knowledge of how certain colors react on flesh, for, instead of accentuating their beauty, women may inadvertently mar it and become disfigured. “For a white gown a delicate makeup with moderate use of rouge is to be recommended, though a good deal of color is required for the woman in black. Black has a tendency to pale one, to make one look anemic. To use a good deal of rouge in this case becomes very 1m- portant. Red gowns should harmonize with the rouged complexion and the right shade of scarlet lips or else the various reds might clash. With orange and yellow the kind of rouge called ‘mandarine,’ fashionable just at present, is suitable. Its yellowish tinge produces an excellent complement to these flaming shades, even though, to my mind, it is hardly har- monious with any other color. NEEDLESS to emphasize a more moder- ate use of makeup for the day than for the evening. The use of rouge should always be regulated by conditions of light, such as sunlight or a cloudy sky. It should also be suitable to the glare of electric bulbs and to the subdued and shaded light of candles. Rouge, to be becoming, should be applied high up (this I was told by an expert on such matters), extending to the temple and as far back as the lobe of the ear. (Concluded on page 120) an ne aE

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wesellUhwhhCUF '” Fe ower ee SS ee OV ow VS bee Ce Ch CP Fe FEBRUARY 1926 THE Silver Screen—the Stage—the Pictorial Magazines — bring us the pageant of lovely women known to fame. But hidden in the great cities, in town and village, is beauty as glorious as Dawn... beauty that never graced screen or stage... beauty that makes America the true land of Charm. Tre-Jur Compacts and Tre-Jur Face Powder are the Symbol of Feminine Charm. In their exquisite ingredients is a quality that enhances loveliness. ee UNKNOWN BEAUTY ~ | In gold, in silver, in gun-metal plate, you will find an ingenious Compact for every need. And if you do not know the de- lightful caress of Tre-Jur Face Powder— a new joy awaits you. Sold at your favorite store or sent by mail fromus. Compact refills are always available. HOUSE of TRE-JUR, Inc., 19 W. 18th St., N. Y. Paris Address—22 Rue La Lande TREJUI2L FACE POWDERS AND COMPACTS

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120 MODEL BY NEW YORK MANGONE MODELS MAY BE OBTAINED AT THE BEST STORE IN ANY LARGE CITY HARPER’S BAZAR A PARISIAN NIGHT’S ENTERTAINMENT Baron de Mevyer’s Article (Concluded from page 118) “Since the women of Europe and America have elected to be as civilized as those of China, of ancient Greece and Egypt, they have discarded the antiquated notion that to make up is bad form, even sinful. The proper use of cosmetics should consequently be part of every girl’s education. American mothers have formed a habit of sending their daughters to be finished in Paris. What, exactly, does this mean? Is it for the sake of acquiring a smattering of French, developing a tiny voice, or being taught the Paris tango? I hardly believe it includes a useful course with a famous beauty specialist. Does it? Why not initiate the future leaders of society into the mysteries of makeup? To have them taught the scientific action of cosmetics on the skin, the secret of applying the correct shade of rouge? It would be teaching a girl a science far nearer to the term ‘being finished off in Paris’ than the hastily acquired drawing-room accomplishments which are the usual result of such a fashionable Paris winter. The object in view is always to give the face a lifted look, for the reverse would be aging. A good deal of light rubbing with the finger tips is recom- mended to obtain an even surface and a soft blending of the rouge applied. ‘Noses, longer than are strictly necessary, may appear shorter by applying rouge beneath them. An imperceptible dab of rouge on the tip of the nose is considered trés dixhuitiéme. This most likely harmonized with powder and patches, but is hardly to be recommended in 1926. To be avoided is a nose powdered white standing out from the rest of the face which is rouged. So are two pink cheeks in a white face. This kind of makeup is quite out of date. “T intend suggesting to Elizabeth Arden, or to some other first-class firm, to launch an exquisitely appointed box containing all the varied shades of rouge existent. These shades will, of course, resemble each other, yet be totally different. This would enable you ladies to sit before your dressing-table mirror, your paintbox in front of you, and to select the kind of rouge likely to harmonize with your gown, as well as with the light conditions most likely to be encountered. The firm which will be the first to place a box containing combined rouges on the market would score a big success.” “All you tell us, Baron de Meyer, is most valuable information. Strange a man should know so much about such things! ” | heard a small voice saying. ‘“ But how is one to know which kind of rouge among the many shades is the one suited to one’s complexion?’ 5 ‘There is a yery simple method,” I replied, “which shall be dedicated to those women unable to make up their minds on this most important subject. This is the recipe: slap one cheek and massage it until it gets red from natural causes. This will leave the other pale by contrast. Try, on this pale cheek, differ- ent kinds of rouges until you have found the one identical in tone with your naturally red cheek. This simple method will enable you to make the right selection.” OME one at this point inquired as to which materials were the most popular this season. “ Which is the material par excellence?” “Kasha,” without an instant’s hesitation I replied, “for kasha nowadays is used for almost every purpose; for sports wear, plain, figured, or plaited (the new ‘Milply’), or woven with silk thread and embroidered in id and silver for more dressy “occasions, while, in its newest combination, with velvet, THE HOUSE OF E. Barrington’s it forms a novel texture which the Messieurs Rodier would undoubtedly have called ‘Kasha-Vel.’ “The most striking use, however, to which kasha has been subjected is when worn to- gether with lamé textures either as linings or as a foundation for golden coats and jackets, This mixture of kasha and metal textures js quite a feature of the season. A short while ago Monsieur Paul Rodier said to me, ‘Look at our kasha (for it is a Rodier creation); it is more popular than ever before, since we are using kasha wools for every sort of older texture such as etamine, serge, cashmere, et cetera, to name but a few. It has given those materials a new lease of life. Thus trans- formed they have become novelties.’ What else, Mesdames, would you care to know? “If bobbed hair is on the wane? No, certainly not! Don’t fool yourself into be- lieving the bobbed coiffure is dead. Maybe the once famous ‘Castle bob’ is no more, but the boyish haircut continues its triumphant career and will remain with us for a long time to come. Why? Principally because of its being comfortable. The much abused gar- gonne haircut, especially, is increasingly adopted. “The next development to be universally adopted is a new style of brushing one’s air. The latest departure tends toward the swirl. Which means that instead of hair being shingled the back hair is either separated by a parting and brushed outward toward each ear, or, better still, brushed up in an oblique manner, producing an effect ob- served on Greek statuary. To be Hellenic and resemble a Greek god seems to be the latest craze. There is a very noticeable at- tempt toward a different outline in bobbed coiffures, especially noticeable with wavy hair which, brushed up, gives an almost crownlike effect to the top of the head. By a clever twist of the brush, a defectively shaped head is camouflaged, resulting in a variety of becom- ing curves. ID I, a moment ago, hear some one ask- ing me for my views on hose? A very subtle subject, indeed. I have a feeling that beige rosé is dead. Nev ertheless, flesh tones in the darker gradations of sunburn, in a sheer and invisibly cobwebby quality, remain. The tendency is decidedly toward darker tones. Colors, though more pronounced, seem to fade a good deal on the leg because of the trans- parency of the hose worn. “For the evening, flesh tones in varied gradations are worn almost exclusively. Yet, since it has been whispered about that beige rosé no more reigns supreme, no one dares to turn down novelties as deliberately as was done a year ago. The new pastel shades are the principal novelty in evening hose. They are cobwebs of finest quality, which give a faint mauve, blue, rose, or char- treuse transparency to the leg, and are sup- posed to establish a harmony between skin and gown. Silk net hose, too, are coming in again, after having lain neglected for several seasons. Though imponderably sheer, these hose are supposed to be. very resistant. They are so far only made in flesh tones, but in case the pastel shades really came to stay and were eventually to displace the warmer tones, net hose would, of course, follow suit. ““Which of the pastel shades do I like best? Undoubtedly mauve. It gives the leg a won- derful shade and harmonizes surprisingly well with the flesh.” Story (Concluded from page 117) after a different fashion. Her feeling for him—how shall it be described? An adored son, all of whose weaknesses are sympatheti- cally understood and loved, even when they wound to the bone? He never married. Perhaps he had plucked the one lesson out of the House of Enchant- ments, that in his hands no woman’s happi- ness could be safe. Perhaps, and more likely, he felt that his own happiness could endure no bonds. So his adorations were facile as ever; there was even a scandal with Royalty itself, and all his ways were followed by women, worshiping, imploring, but in vain. Even as an old man his fascinations were dangerous, and Fanny Kemble, cousin to the unhappy sisters, bears witness to their power. It may seem that the Fates themselves made him their darling and Nemesis laid by her scourge. Beauty, fame, success, long life, a tomb in St. Paul’s Cathedral among the mighty beside Sir Joshua Reynolds. England mourned when her great Lawrence died. What was there left which he might have had and had not? Self-mastery and the peace it brings, and yet another thing—the lightener of trouble, the radiance which no darkness can drown, that true humor which views itself with as dispassionate laughter as it views others with pity and almost divine forbearance. He ran the gamut of all the emotions and sentiments, but of that quiet hidden mirth, like a brook hidden among the flowers, there was never 4 trace. If he had possessed it his pictures would have been the greater, and tragedy for Mrs. Siddons (who was his very counter- part in that respect) might have been left on the boards, safely buttressed by the foot- lights. So the House of Enchantments is left to darkness and silence, and all its beauty and genius lie in the dust. But it is from the dust that flowers renew their youth in spring, and in its very barrenness is written the wor RESURGAM, the word of hope immortal

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rtrimwe ABOAM DAS: ™ © @OMererv wy « bli i i a i eh wt ee ow ¢ ow ae a Ve oS el for FEBRUARY 1926 121 No cream actually transforms the skin— No cosmetics successfully conceal its blemishes ‘But scientific care can help your skin to function happily, and so develop and preserve for you the lovely character- istics of a naturally clear fresh skin. 2) A LOVELY SKIN IS, prosaic- ally, a layer of active tissues. It excretes certain wastes through the pores. It must be fed, else it becomes too re- laxed and impoverished to work. And it must keep work- ing, else the wastes pile up and mar the skin with blemishes, coarse pores and sallowness. Correct care of the skin means simply keeping the cells beau- tifully busy. The Elizabeth Arden Treat- ment is based on three funda- mental steps: Cleansing, Ton- ing and Nourishing. Cleans- ing—with pure melting Vene- tian Cleansing Cream—to dis- lodge all those impurities which clog the pores and cause blackheads and coarse- ness. Toning—with Ardena Skin Tonic and Special Astrin- gent—to close the pores, tone and firm theskin, and keep the circulation through the skin tissues brisk and active. Nour- ishing—with Orange Skin Food or the delicate Velva Cream— to keep every skin cell full and firm, and so prevent or correct the wrinkles and lines of im- poverished tissues. Follow the same three steps in your Self Treatments at home. Just a few minutes each night and morning, using the corrective Preparations and method developed by Eliza- beth Arden, will accomplish wonderful results for you. Write for a copy of “THE QUEST OF THE BEAUTIFUL,” Elizabeth Arden’s book on the correct care of the skin according to her scientific method. . LONDON: 25 Old Bond Street PARIS: 2 rue de la Paix BIARRITZ: 2 rue Gambetta DEMEYERs He ete eaten oe a i ily PATTING with ARDENA SKIN TONIC brings quick circulation through the skin tissues and so keeps the skin clear and fine, the contour firm and smooth Elizabeth cArden recommends these Preparations for your care of the skin at home Venetian Cleansing Cream. Removes all impurities from the pores. Cleanses thor- oughly, and soothes the skin, leaving it soft and receptive. $1, $2, $3, $6. Venetian Ardena Skin Tonic. Tones, firms and clarifies the skin. A gentle bleach and astringent. 85c, $2, $3.75.. Venetian Orange Skin Food. Rounds out wrinkles and lines. Excellent for a thin, lined or aging face, and as a preventive of fading and lines. $1, $1.75, $2.75, $4.25. Venetian Velva Cream. A delicateskinfood for sensitive skins. Keeps the skin soft and smooth. Recommended also for a full face, as it nourishes without fattening. $1, $2, $3, $6. Venetian Muscle Oil. A soothing and penetrating oil, rich in the elements which restore sunken tissues or flabby muscles. $1, $2.50, $4. Venetian Special Astringent. Lifts and firms the tissues, tightens the skin. Important for the treatment of a fallen contour or flabby neck. $2.25, $4. Venetian Pore Cream. A greaseless astria- gent cream which closes open pores, corrects their laxness and refines the coarsest skin. $1, $2.50. Venetian Amoretta Cream. An exquisite rotective Cream, gives a smooth natural loom to the skin. Prevents roughness and chapping. A becoming powder foundation. $1, $2. Venetian Ultra-Amoretta Cream. Slightly more oily. An excellent ‘‘nose cream.’” $1, $2. Poudre d’Illusion. Powder of superb qual- ity, fine, pure, adherent. I/lusion (a peach blend), Rachel, Ocre, Minerva and White. $3. Elizabeth Arden’s Venetian Toilet Preparations and Babani Perfumes are on sale at smart shops everywhere ELIZABETH ARDEN NEW YORK: 673 FIFTH AVENUE CANNES: 3 Galeries Fleuries PALM BEACH: Via Mizner SAN FRANCISCO: 233 Grant Avenue BOSTON: 24 Newbury Street DETROIT: 318 Book Building LOS ANGELES: 600 West 7th Street T was charming, original, clever, harmonious and suited you to perfection—I am speaking of your dress of yesterday. But must I say the truth? It would not have been half so enchanting without those three white roses you wore on your left shoulder. Such a pretty idea, yet so seldom put into practice. My dear, for the love of me, please wear flowers, I mean real ones, coming from your garden and bringing in their leaves a scent of fresh air. How so few women realize the feeling of elegance and delicacy produced by flowers worn in the right place at the right moment, I always won- dered. I cannot look at your friend Beatrix, with her dark silky hair and blue velvet eyes without think- ing of a little bunch of pansies rest- ing on her heart. I imagine to my- self our brilliantand blooming Olivia with amaranthine carnations in her auburn locks, and I would give any- thing tosee the thoughtful and mys- terious Susan adorning her waist with new-born violets. Yes, each woman ought to adopt one special flower, according to her nature and complexion. But you, my dear, I really think you could wear any of them. Indeed they were created for you, not only to add, if possible, to your personal charms, but to embellish your whole house. Think of the effect of cinerarias and tuberoses in your drawing room, of orchids in your boudoir, of tulips on your dining table. Would you like them? Yes, I am sure you would. And I feel, I sup- pose .. . in short, something tells me be would like them very much. , © 1926, Elizabeth Arden PHILADELPHIA: 133 South 18th Street ATLANTIC CITY: Ritz-Carlton Block WASHINGTON: 1147 Connecticut Ave.

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122 dont wash your face this winter DON’T wash your face in the morning! Don’t wash your face at night! Just try the Marie Earle way for a week, if never washing your face this winter seems a shocking thought. Then . .. make ita month. Then . .. when you see how much better your color is . . . how much softer and smoother your skin feels . . . how quickly your friends comment on the better looks of your complexion —then you won’t want to wash it again, ever. Marie Earle’s way is active care of the skin. Cleansing, nourishing, toning, instead of the superficial washing with soap and water, those dangerous accomplices of drying winds. It’s a dry skin that gets the little wrinkles that become deep lines. Marie Earle has studied faces all her life. Her Basic Treatments give the skin thorough cleans- ing and adequate nourishment. ... In each treatment the Essential Cream is used; the Cucumber Emulsion, which makes it twice as penetrating, and a lotion suited to the type of skin. The Soothing-Freshener Lotion is for sensitive, dry skins. Choose the Basic Treatment for your own type: Number One for average, Number Two for dry, Number Three for oily skins. Perhaps you knew Marie Earle’s exclusive little salon in Paris. Her salon here has kept its Continental charm. Her methods are of the old world—she herself still supervises the mixing of her preparations. Miss Earle’s booklet, “The Other Side of the Moon” (she calls it a real Encyclopedia Marie Earle), tells about all her preparations and includes a Diagnosis Blank. Fill this out, and quite free of charge the Consultation Department will advise you what to do for your skin. Marie Earle preparations on sale in the smarter shops. Write for a list of these, or order direct from the Salon, 600 Madison Avenue, New York. The Essential Cream in generous jars $1.90 up. d £2) a/te Ca rle/ NEW YORK HARPER’S BAZAR WHY GIRLS GO SOUTH Anita Loos’s Story (Continued from page 89) never yet allowed business to interfere with pleasure, and Palm Beach is no place to begin. The third rival for the hand of Judy is Enrico Cadiz. He, unlike Count Swazy, is a self-made man, and an example of what earnest effort can achieve in our democratic America. Coming up from the Argentine five years ago on a cattle-ship, he is to-day one of the most sought-after bachelors in American Society. He won his way by hard work, starting his career in New York by crashing débutante parties, standing in the stag line and watching for ‘signals of distress from men who had been stuck with undesir- able debs. These signals are given by the dancer eagerly eying the stag line, and at the same time fingering a dollar bill held in the hand which is back of the débutante. The stag cutting in gets the dollar bill, which is deftly passed while the change of partners is being effected, the whole process being known as ‘life -saving”! Enrico worked at “‘life- saving” for months, nobly avoiding the gather- ings of the “new line” debs, who were pretty and well supplied with liquor, and going only to the finest old Knickerbocker affairs, where dollar bills were passed most frequently. At one of the most exclusive débuts of his first winter, the ante for “‘life-saving’’ was raised from one to five dollars, and business was so good that he picked up a nice little nest-egg. With this as a start, his rise was rapid, and to- day he is indispensable to any really exclusive affair. Enrico approached Delicia Dennington, a sub-deb. She was to have come out this winter, but illness prevented. She developed “smokers’ throat” right on top of an acute attack of “Charleston feet,’’ complicated by an overdose of acid in the system, due to too much orange juice taken in cocktail form. Delicia is having a “boy and girl” affair with “Stewie” Winthrop, who is hanging over her shoulder. Stewie s father started him out to live up to the fine old family name of Win- throp, but that being a bit difficult, Stewie has compromised by living up to his nickname. There are those who say that modern life makes for’ inconstancy, yet the little romance of Stewie and Delicia has endured for months. Together, they have been through three motor wrecks, two of Stewie’s D. T. attacks, a police raid, and a jail sentence, and still the bloom has not worn off. Feeling that a pair of lovers will unde *rstand his troubles, Enrico comes to them for sym- pathy. It seems that Judy has been cold to him of late, after being otherwise. He wanted a chance to see her, so he made violent love to old lady Cobb, in order to get an invitation to her treasure hunt, and so be with Judy. But at the treasure hunt, Judy had schemed to be with Count Swazy, so that Enrico was stuck with old lady Cobb, who took everything he had said to her seriously. Enrico is bitter and disillusioned about Judy. He is a Latin and can’t understand such American cold blood and calculation. ELICIA allows that it was “perfectly putrid” of Judy, but tells Enrico to cheer up and “hold everything.”’ Her words of sympathy are interrupted by old lady Cobb herself, who joins them. She is Mrs. Cornelius Cobb of Chicago—famous for the rope of pearls given her by her father on her marriage. It reached clear to her toes in those days, but increasing embonpoint has lifted its limit to a point half-way between the knee and the hip. She is not wearing it to-day, however, because her husband is hanging about, and as Mr. Cobb has just had a bad run of luck at Bradley’s, Mrs. Cobb has given her pearls to the chauffeur for safekeeping. The Duchess of Dexter now draws all eyes to the center of the room by giving her well- known imitation of Charlie Chaplin. The Duchess is noted for her imitations and can do almost any one. If she could only give an imitation of a duchess, her line would be complete. At this point, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Spoffard of Philadelphia enter the cloister and make their way through the throng to Damon and Spottiswood. Mr. Spoffard is the great millionaire reformer and his wife is known on the screen as Lorelei Lee. They dropped in to order the decorations for their new home, a late Addison Mizner, and Lorelei’s instruc- tions to Damon are that she “doesn’t really mind antique furniture so much, so long as a room is full of plenty of maribou.” Mr. Spoffard is looking the party over and becoming uneasy. He nudges his wife, mo- tions her away from Damon and Spottiswood, with whom she is “holding a conversation, and tells her that all of this is very reminis- cent of Sodom and Gomorrah. Lorelei says that she never saw Sodom and Gomorrah, but if they were anything like Savoy and Bren- nan used to be, she thinks he is right. Mr. Spoffard now notices Georgie Wilkes lighting a pipe, and decides that matters have gone far enough. He grabs Lorelei by the arm and heads for the door, where they bump into Judy’s Aunt Mary, who is just arriving. Mr. Spoffard stops long enough to tell her that they are shocked at the goings-on, and that he wonders what the next generation is going to be. “Now, Mr. Spoffard,” says Aunt Mary, “don’t you worry about the next generation. Why, you’d have to import some Turkish atrocities to get another generation out of this crowd!” And with that, Aunt Mary bounces into the room to join the fun. By this time, the Duchess has done her stuff, and approaches Damon and Spottis- wood, who are biting their nails under a beautiful old thirteenth-century reliquary. They are both annoyed because Judy, for whom the party was given, has not put in an appearance. ‘For, the love of linoleum,” “whe re’s Judy?’ “Damon, my dear,” says the Duchess, “don’t expect too much of the darling child— she never catches up with her dates, dear boy, and she may be detained by that beastly cinema business she’s gone in for!” The Duchess is sore on the cinema. She tried to horn into the minor réle of an English lady, but the director said she couldn’t look the part, and finally gave it to a telephone oper- ator from the Poinciana. “What's Judy playing in the film?” asks Spottiswood. “Well,” answers the Duchess, “they started her in to play a statue that comes to life—but she couldn’t stand still as the statue, and she went dead on them when they told her to come to life. So then they made hera guest at a house party, but my dear, they expected her to be on the set for hours at a time. So finally they made her a lady who drops in for a cup of tea. They’ve taken the scene of her dropping in, but she has so many engagements, they hav en’t been able to pin her down to the cup of tea. says Damon, B* THIS time Aunt Mary approaches. She grabs Spottiswood by the arm and drags him over to the seclusion of an early Spanish prayer bench. “T hope Judy shows up here,” she says. **1 never see her at home, and there is some- thing I must find out. “Oh, do tell what!” says Spottiswood. “Tt’s a long story, my dear! What we have been through since we came to Florida has surprised even me, and I consider myself shock-proof! You know, we are keeping house in the Gwynn cottage.” “How ever did you happen to get a cottage —why, they’re scarcer down here than morals!” “Of course they are, but when we arrived, the local realtor told us that, even though cottages were scarce, one was frequently given up by somebody who had to be moved to the hospital, and from the way Willie Gwynn was bringing liquor in from Key West, his cottage ought to be vacant any time. So we simply went to the Poinciana and waited.” “Clever you!” exclaims Spottiswood. “Well,” continues Aunt Mary, “we had the most dreadful time after we moved into the cottage! We took over all of Willie’s servants, and matters started off well enough, when Judy’s father came into a chec k for five hundred dollars, and disappeared.” ‘And how did he ever raise five hundred dollars?’ . “He raised it with yeast, my dear!’ “Yeast?” “He wrote a testimonial for a yeast com- pany. Surely you've seen it in all the maga- zines. I’m having it framed, because it’s the first time in history that it was ever intimated that Judy’s father had any insides.” “But where did he disappear to?” “Well, that was the question. If we only had a civilized Governmental control of liquor in this country, such as they have in Canada, we should simply have gone to the nearest depot and picked him up. But, when you have to comb fifty or sixty obscure liquor stations, it’s dreadful! We finally had to go to the police! But, I must say, they were sweet about it. They gave us a complete list of addresses where liquor could be bought, and a charming detective went along with us, but— wait until I tell you what had happened to Julian!” “Well, tell away!” “We finally found a certain place—excellent gin, by the way—let me give you the address when I’m finished. Now, at this place, they also deal in real estate. It seems that all the bootleggers down here have gone into real estate on the side. So when they learned that- Julian had five hundred dollars, they produced the map of a new town called, ‘Dolce Far Nienté,’ with sixty miles of water-front lots, and they induced Julian to put every cent he had on one of them, so he could import his own liquor from the rum fleet, right up to the front gate. Well, as we found out later, Délce Far Nienté was two hundred miles inland, but they did have sixty miles of water front, which they achieved by digging a thirty-mile (Continued on page 124)

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MME. VERA FOKINA, famous dancer, whose classic beauty is so weu enhanced by this type of coiffure after u hich a smart transformation is realistically patterned. RANSFORMATIONS by Pierre ---- so perfect, so deceptively natural! When you wear a Pierre Transformation you know it is a transformation, but ah! your friends do not. For, you may depend on it, it has the life, the natura/ness that only Pierre workmanship can achieve ... Indeed, in a true sense, a Pierre Transformation is a very part of you. Custom- made of the choicest hair under Pierre’s personal direction, it is fashioned exactly to fit you and to glorify you with its perfection of appearance. But, best of all, madame, the unfailing quality of a Pierre creation assures you of a transforma- tion that stays faultless and beautiful for years, long after inferior import substitutes have become frowsy and lifeless. It is this high excellence that has won for Pierre his unchal- lenged leadership based on 20 years of experience. Of the many styles, there is one that will smartly become you, whether you wish a transformation that duplicates the distinction of the coiffure shown above or one of a more conventional contour. “p ° 28 West 57th Street, New York City HARPER’S BAZAR WHY GIRLS GO SOUTH Anita Loos’s Story (Continued from page 122) ditch, turning some fresh water into it and marking out lots on either side. “Well, my dear, this bootlegger’s lots were terrible, but his gin was magnificent, and when we arrived at the place, Julian had gotten full of it and started down the ditch in a rowboat, expecting to connect with the rum fleet in the Atlantic Ocean. He had been gone half a day, when a blinding rainstorm came up and washed away the ditch. We finally located him, but by that time the sun had come out, and there was Julian, simply smothered in dust, trying to locate the place where the ditch had been so he could push the boat back!” “How too precious!” “But that’s only half of the story! Judy’s mother and I had to be away for two days, routing out Julian, and while we were gone, something strange happened at home.” ‘It did?’ “Yes, indeed! The evening we left was the night of the Coconut Ball. number of guests were to meet up with Judy at our house for a cocktail beforehand. Enrico and Judy were going together, both in seventeenth- century French costumes. Delicia, Stewie, Mrs. Cobb, the Duchess, and that dear boy who used to dance at the Reliquary before he met Mrs. Cobb, were also due. As I under- stand it, the party started at our house about half an hour after Judy’s mother and I left, and broke up two days later at the same place, when they heard us returning up the gravel path. The Duchess had started out in a sweet Dolly Varden effect, but by the time we got back, she had changed to something modern—that is, if you want to call Julian’s hunting breeches modern. He bought them from Poole in London thirty years ago. In fact, I believe, almost all of the guests had changed to something they found around the house—but Enrico might still have been dressed in the period, because he took French leave out the back way when we came in. However, I may be wrong, as some of the others, who were in this year’s bathing-suits, followed his example. Well, we entered the house and surveyed the almost complete wreck of what had once been an Adam interior. You know yourself, Spottiswood, that no Adam interior can keep its simplicity when there are chunks of plaster out of the ceiling that nobody has bothered to pick up off the floor.” “Oh Miss van Tassell!” ‘And underfoot, my dear, there was fuzz an ‘in deep, from large tufts that had been dug out of the carpet. ““Well—that might suggest the Charleston!’ “That’s just what I figured! But, wait a moment, you haven’t heard anything yet! We finally decided to fortify ourselves with food. So we rang for breakfast. The butler appeared, and said that the servants were all going for a swim, so we’d have to get it our- se lv ° s! “‘ Bolshevism—I'll be bound!” “Of course, I fired him on the spot, at which he raised his hand to his mouth to cover a smile and said I had better ask Miss Judy whether it would be wise to let him out. So we called in the parlormaid to find Judy, which she did by opening the door into the hall and calling up the stairs, ‘Hey, Judy, your aunt wants you’ ! “How horrible! “T told the butler that if we fired them, they could never get another job in Palm Beach, but he only smiled and said they could shake down a job out of any lady who had been at the party. But they had gone over the list and decided to stay with us, because the Duchess had only a hall bedroom at the Poinciana, the Dennington estate was in the hands of their bootlegger, and they understood that Mrs. Cobb’s house had been marked for a jewel robbery. “Well, Judy finally came down-stairs and we talked things over, pro and con, and de- cided that, after all, we had better not let the servants out—it looks so bad to see a whole flock leave in the middle of the season! How- ever, it’s all been very trying, because, as the butler started to go out the door, he turned and said, ‘No doubt, Miss van Tassell, you'll be glad to have us here to help out at the wedding!” ‘*What wedding?’ I asked, and he said, ‘Well, I mention no names, but we all hope — s going to be a wedding.’ Oh, the beast!” “This business has simply played havoc with our home life! It’s not so bi ad for Judy, because she’s never there, but it’s very ditfi- cult for us! Only this morning, I told the up- stairs girl, who is supposed to be ‘maiding’ me, that my stockings needed mending, and she replied, ‘Well, Miss van Tassell, I didn’t know that you could mend.’ And yesterday, when the Duchess dropped in at tea time, the butler gave her a cup of cold tea that was left over from breakfast, borrowed ten dollars, and told her a risqué story!” “Well, Miss van Tassell, what are we com- ing to when the lower class can behave like that to the nobility!” “Heaven knows! However, people of that type occasionally have a clever idea. We mustn’t overlook the fact that genius some- times comes from the gutter. For inst: ance, that butler’s notion about a wedding was n’t bad, on the whole. Judy would look divine in a wedding-gown. i talked to her seriously about it and finally got her interested, but she said that she had better pick a fiancé from among the boys who had not been at the party. So we finally settled on dear Winnie Valentine. But since then, Count Swazy has appeared on the scene and Judy has been dividing her time between the two of them. I don’t want her to let the Count take her mind off Winnie, La ag of course, she must marry money. I do hope Winnie proposes before he hears too much gossip, because his bride will have to be a perfect housekeeper i in order to manage the Fifth Avenue mansion, and if Winnie hears that Judy has no control over servants, it might go against her. You know how fussy some of the old families are!” At this point Judy herself enters. She has grown more beautiful since her sojourn in the South, and radiates a softer and more shimmering loveliness. She has been down on the pier with her publicity agent and a news photogr: upher, posing with a tuna fish for a “better movie” campaign. OTH Count Swazy and Winnfield make a dash for her side, but Winnie gets there first, so Wealth wins out over Nobility. Winnie grabs her by the wrist and leads her straight through the crowded room and out into the garden, hardly giving her a chance to nod a greeting to her friends on the way. Judy’s late entrance had given her so much importance, that her almost immediate dis- appearance into the garden with Winnie makes a sensation. Every one in the room feels that Winnie’s action has only one purpose; that social history is in the making, and that, from now on, as the fiancée of Winnie Valen- tine, Judy will be legitimate front-page stuff, without having the bother of a bluff about a career. Winnie steers Judy out into the court- yard, bec “y it has grown shadowy in the cloister and, for a certain reason, he wants the full light of day to shine upon his wooing. He has worn that imitation fly and bit of thread all afternoon, with no results, and he feels that, given half a chance, he can work them now on the girl he loves, because surely she will see, and understand and bite. He seeks a well-lit spot, and plants himself firmly in front of her. “Say, Judy,” he asks, thing wrong about me? Judy could easily work up a list of several hundred items, but she feels this is hardly the time to do it, so she merely says, “No!” Winnie drags her into a better light, throws out his chest, to bring into prominence his coat lapel with its imitation fly, and assumes a well-known Napoleonic attitude, which brings his right arm, with its bit of thread, across his chest. “‘ Now,”’ he says, “‘do you see anything?” “Well, Winnie,” says Judy, giving him a pretty good look-over, “it seems to me that you’ve brushed up a bit.” Winnie stamps his foot in impotent ex- asperation. ‘hat’s the finish,” he yells. “I’m through with you, Judy Revell!” “Why, Winnie!” she exclaims. “I’m absolutely through! We would never be congenial, bec: ause you will never learn to understand me!” ihy, what are you talking about?” “I’m not going to take the trouble to explain! All I’ve got to say is that you have no sense of humor and you never think of any one’s pleasure but your own. Here I’ve gone around with you for days and days, and even drunk cocktails, and gotten all over rash, just to please you, but any time I ask you to put your mind on something for me, you just go right on thinking about yourself: I’m through—absolutely through! And I’m going to order up steam on the yacht and go for a cruise, and I’ll never see you again! He turns angrily and stalks away. Judy watches him pass through the pergola and become a silhouette against the setting sun, just like the end of a movie. There is no dodging the fact that the divine Judy Revell has been walked out on by the best bet in America. “do you see any- UDY is stunned. She looks about help- lessly and sinks onto a cold marble bench. Winnie’s sudden disappearance is terrible! en a in Palm Beach will know that something unusual has happened to send him away like that, and, as there isn’t a girl in her set who would refuse him, it certainly is going to look as though Winnie had done the refusing himself! What Judy lacks in brains is made up for by a magnificent instinct for self-preservation, so she puts that to work, and it works like a (Conclutel on page 126)

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Shaqmoor ‘TOPCOATS Superb in Quality Smartsingle-breasted model. Plain, diago- nal, check or herring- bone fabric. Neat turnback cuffs, nov- elty collar and flap pockets. Half lining of Peau de Cygne. All seams silk bound. TYLE distinction that captures the fancy; wrinkle-proof fabrics of pure virgin wool, that.shed dust and moisture; tailoring that péeserves the trim smartness of line—these are some of the features which have won leadership for Shagmoor Topcoats. Originated in England; produced in America; appropriate for both sport and utility wear. Every genuine Shagmoor Topcoat bears the Shagmoor label. Look for it! nderBros., 498 Seventh Ave. and 205 W. 36th St., New York Write for Shagmoor fashion booklet and we'll give you the name of a nearby shop where Shagmoor Topcoats may be purchased. HARPER’S BAZAR WHY GIRLS GO SOUTH Anita Loos’s Story (Concluded from page 124) dog for several moments. Finally it suggests that she reenter the cloister and start her well-known line about a career, letting them all take it for granted that ART has ousted Winnfield! She gets up, powders her nose, squares her shoulders and sails back into the studio. Both Swazy and Aunt Mary are waiting near the door for her reappearance. Judy’s gaze softens as she sees the Count. He clutches her hand and kisses it, sending a thrill right down to her toes. Really, these Hunga- rians! Enrico, by this time, has moved up. Judy gives him a grateful look for the first time in weeks. After all, he is a comfort, in that he can talk about Judy almost as con- stantly as she can talk about herself, and only lacks her sincerity. “‘Where’s Winnfield?” asks Aunt Mary. “Did you throw him in the Wishing Well?” “Aunt Mary,” answers Judy, “I’ve quarreled with Winnie! He’s too tiresome! can’t be annoyed with him, when all my interest is in my career! Everybody appears to be interested, and so, bolstered up on all sides, little by little Judy’s self-esteem starts to return. Delicia, the Duchess, and several others draw up, to hear how life goes on in the mov ies. “T simply love my work!” Judy rants on, “even though it is exhausting. Why, the scene they took of me last month, dropping in for a cup of tea, had to be done over seventeen times, and you can imagine what that means to a person of my nervous temperament! Why, I told the director . . and my test was . . and the scene of myself . and I said . _ and he said better than Gloria Swanson . . . andI ...me... myself ...mine...me. a. I I. (But the only possible way ‘to stand for this line of talk is to be able to look at Judy while she is doing it, and since we can’t see her beautiful dial, it’s best to come down to the meat of it in a few words—Judy has given her ALL to ART.) N the midst of this, a flurry is caused in the cloister by the excited entrance of Miss Steinbach, who is down in Palm Beach handling not only Judy’s publicity but that of two Society matrons, a safety razor, a steamship line, a new patent face mud, and a sub-division near Boca Raton. “Miss Revell,” she cries, terrible has happened!” “something ial * 2 Irvin S. Cobb’s Judy asks what. Miss Steinbach gasps for breath and continues, ‘‘I just passed the railroad station —and what do you think? The entire Acme Motion Picture Company ee getting on the train! They’ve finished! They’re go ing back to New York! You never showed up to take the rest of your scene, and after all our publicity, you are not going to be in the picture!” HIS announcement is followed by the total collapse of Judy’s bluff, by general confusion and by what the French term brouhaha! Miss Steinbach does her best to take the bulk of the blame on her own shoulders, by explaining to everybody that she has kept Judy so busy with publicity stunts that she has had no time left to devote to work. A silence falls over the whole group be- cause nobody can think of anything to say —except Aunt Mary, and she decides she had better not speak her mind in public. Count Swazy goes to get Judy a cocktail, but the situation is finally saved by Georgie Wilkes, who takes her pipe from between her teeth, shoots her cuffs a couple of times and stalks up. “My dear,” she says to Judy, “I think you've had a lucky escape. What would you be doing in the movies, anyway? With that coloring—that voice—your place is in the theater!” “Oh, do you think so?” asks Judy, clutch- ing at a straw. “Certainly. I’m always looking for talent for the Toolchest Players. We're beginning our spring season next month. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime for you! What do you say?” Miss Steinbach looks at her watch. “T think,” she says, “that I can telegraph the story to New York in time for the morning editions!’ ‘And please tell them,” says Judy, “to put two l’s in my name. The last’ time nearly every front page had it wrong. Wouldn’t you think that when the newspapers are dealing with people of temperament, they’d try not to do things that send one into a rage?” And so, Judy, casting her fortunes once more with ART, turns her beautiful face toward a life of endeavor in the best little theater on West Twelfth Street. —.” Story (Concluded from page 67) he lost flesh. People about him said the noble young governor was not like himself any more. They predicted a breakdown unless he was cured of what hidden cause it was which distressed him. NE morning he rose, haggard and red- eyed, from the bed upon which since midnight he had tossed and rolled. He had made his decision. Selfishness had won. He would break his promise to Wyeth. But since he must go to eternal Hell for a lie, he would go there for another and a sweeter reason. Until now, his romantic dealings with little Mrs. Riddle had been mild and harmless, if clandestinely conducted. He had not philan- dered with her; he merely had flirted. On his side it had been an innocent flirtation—an agreeable diversion. But he knew the lady’s mind—knew she was weak and willing, where he had been strong and straightforward. So be it then. For a crown to his other and lesser iniquity he would corrupt the wife of his devoted friend. For the first time in a month he had zest for his breakfast. Conscience was so thor- oughly drugged she seemed as though dead. From the table he went to the long-distance telephone. He would call her up and arrange for an assignation. There was considerable delay in establishing the connection—a buzz- ing over the wire, a confusion of vague sounds. Finally his ringing was answered by a strange voice. “IT wish to speak with Mrs. Riddle,” he said. There was a little pause. Then, in a fum- bling, evasive fashion the voice made reply. ‘She’ s not here. I guess. It occurred to the governor that he might as well tell the warden he had abandoned the idea of pardoning the barber. “Then I’d like to talk with Mr. Riddle,” he said. “‘He’s—he’s not here either. please?” In his double disappointment the governor forgot the possible need for caution. “This,” he said, “is Governor Blankenship.” “Oh!” The voice became warmer. “Is that you, Governor? I’ve been trying for an hour to get you on your private line. This is Warden Riddle’s brother at the ’phone—you know, Henry Riddle? They got me up at daylight when this—this terrible thing was discovered, and I’ve been here ever since, doing what I could.” “What terrible thing do you mean?” “Haven’t you heard the news? Why, sir, the worst man in the penitentiary got away last night—Wyeth, the desperado. He—he had help. That’s why the warden’s away, why I’m in charge. My poor brother’s out with the posse trying to get trace of the ong. I guess he’ll shoot him if he finds im “But why is Mrs. Riddle absent at such a time?” “Governor, that’s the worst part of it. She was the one that helped that dev il to escape. And she—she went with him!’ She’s—she’s out of town, Who is this, 4} the end of his days Governor G.W. Blan- kenship was known as the man who never told a lie. When he died they carved some- thing to that general effect upon his tombstone.

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128 SIMPLICIT Y—the keynote of Fashion—is here delightfully expressed in a new thought for Sportwear. One of many Inspirations to herald the coming Season. Always the unusual at your Favorite Shop. DEL MONTE-HICKEY 246 WEsT 38TH STREET, NEw YORK HARPER’S BAZAR THE SIGN OF THE CROOKED CROSS Sir Philip Gibbs’ Story (Continued from page 61) Rita, warmly. “It doesn’t bore me in the very least.” “i bores most people,” said the young man, “my people among them.... My father thinks I’m a fool to go in for doctor- ing when I might make money in trade.” “Oh, no!” cried Rita. “It’s only the Jews who make money out of trade. No Christian has a chance against them in Vienna. They batten on us.’ The young man shifted a little in his seat and then laughed. “I’m a Jew. But unlike most of my people I haven’t the money-making instinct.” ITA VON FALCKENSTEIN sat rather silent for the rest of the drive. She hadn’t guessed that the man by her side was a Jew, though now he had told her it was obvious. She ought to have known at a glance, but she was stupid about things like that. She hated the Jews, like all her family and every Catholic in Vienna. It was a kind of obsession, which she shared with her father and brothers. Since early childhood she had been taught to look upon the Jews with disgust and contempt, as the enemies of the Catholic Church and a vile race. Now fear and a sense of suffocation had been added to those causes of dislike. Since the downfall of Austria it was only the Jews who prospered. They were the valuta hiinde, the “‘exchange hounds,” who made money some- how out of the ruin of Austrian currency. Now that the League of Nations had taken over the financial control of Austria it was the Jews who took possession of Vienna. They had come in from all parts of Europe, Germany, Czecho-Slovakia, Hungary, Po- land. They had borrowed money from their rich relatives in Berlin and New York and London and had bought up all the factories and shops and restaurants and banks. One saw them everywhere. Rich young Jews with oiled hair and well-pressed suits drove about in smart motor-cars while Austrian aristocrats, the Catholic gentility of the old régime, could hardly afford a tramcar, and dressed shabbily in threadbare clothes, and were ashamed of their boots. The best restaurants—frightfully expensive—were fre- quented only by these flashy Jews, spending money freely, eating and drinking lavishly, while the gentlefolk of Austria stinted and scraped at home with hardly enough to eat, and sometimes not enough. Rita had seen them on Sunday streaming through the doors of the Palast-Hotel where the waiters bowed to them. They were with their women folk— overdressed, painted women with diamond rings—or worse still, in Rita’s mind, with Catholic girls—or rather girls who had lost their faith and morals—willing to accept the amorous advances of these rich young Jews, or rich old ones, for the sake of luxury “— ag life of pleasure. he Jews, said her father, were behind i“ scenes of all the evil in the world, this wretched world after the war, with all its agony and future peril. They had made the revolution in Russia. There was a Jewish conspiracy to overthrow civilization itself. In Hungary, Bela Kuhn and his Jews had raised the Red Flag and behaved like bandits until they were turned out and punished— “with righteous vengeance,” said her father. In Vienna young men like her brother had banded themselves together in a society called the Hakenkreuz, with the sign of the swastika as their badge, to defend Austria from the Jews and to uphold the traditions of the German race. Now she sat in a taxi with this young Jew from whom she had accepted favors. He was paying for her drive home. If her mother and father knew they would be terribly upset. She had a sense of guilt and shame. At THE journey’s end the young doctor jumped out into the rain and held his umbrella over her head while she ran into her doorway. “Thank you,” she said rather coldly. “A pleasure,” he answered, politely. He hesitated for a moment and she saw that his dark eyes were scrutinizing her face. “Perhaps we may meet again one day My name is Hoffmann, Dr. Max Hoffmann. And yours? She could hardly refuse to tell him. He had been very kind. If he hadn’t been a Jew she would think him charming. ‘I am Rita von Falckenstein.” She saw him give a slight start. Perhaps he guessed that her father was General von Falckenstein who was so constantly attacked in the Neue Freie Presse for his anti-Jewish speeches and his command of the Hakenkreuz battalions. But he did not remark on that. “ Auf Wiedersehen,” he said, with a friendly nod. As she ran up the stone stairs to her father’s flat she heard the taxi swishing away down the Rothenthurmstrasse and the honk of its horn. Inside the flat her mother had prepared her supper and was warming up some choco- late over an oil stove. “Vou are very late, my dear! I was getting quite anxious. Such a dreadful night!’ “The trams were all crowded,” said Rita, She made no reference to that taxi drive. She went over and kissed her father on the forehead as he sat deep in an armchair read- ing his paper—the Neue Freie Presse. His square head—like Hindenburg’s—had become white-haired after the war, though he was only middle-aged. He grunted good-naturedly and let the paper drop to the floor where he trampled on it, with a slippered foot. “ Austria is finished as a Christian country,” he said, as though commenting on the night’s news. “Those infernal Jews have got us by the throat. I'd like to hang the lot of them. A healthy pogrom.’ “Oh, bother the Jews,” said Rita’s mother. “Let’s forget them for once. This poor child is wet through. Go and change your frock, dear.” Rita hesitated at the door and half turned round. She wondered with a sense of amuse- ment what her father would say if she told him that a Jew had brought her home. . . Better not, perhaps. Her father was getting very irritable these days. She dreamed that night that she was still in the taxi with Dr. Max Hoffmann and that he refused to stop outside her house but told the driver to go on faster because General von Falckenstein wanted to kill him. “He is my father and a very kind man,” said Rita in her dream. Then Dr. Hoffmann laughed harshly and said: “ He is a Christian. He has no kindness for Jews like me.” Rita tried to get out of the taxi, but Dr. Hoffmann held her tight and would not let her escape— until she woke up with a cry. ... Whata ridiculous dream! She blushed when she remembered it at breakfast. T WAS three weeks later when she saw Dr. Hoffmann again. It was when she was teaching her class the rivers of Europe from a big map on the blackboard. The door opened and the headmistress came in with a young man. Rita had her head turned toward the blackboard and started when the headmistress spoke to her. “T’m sorry to interrupt your lessons, Friulein. This is our new medical inspector, Dr. Hoffmann.” Rita felt a hot wave of color rise to her face. It was because that first silly dream of hers had been followed by two others, even sillier. Since that taxi drive the face of this young Jewish doctor had haunted her, waking and sleeping. He seemed to have made some extraordinary impression on her subconscious mind. He looked at her now with quick recogni- tion and smiled slightly as he bowed. “T hope you didn’t catch cold the other night, Miss Falckenstein?” The headmistress was surprised at this acquaintance. At lunch time that morning after the medical inspection of the school, when the young doctor had gone, she spoke to Rita about it. “You know our new inspector? As your father’s daughter it’s surprising that you have any friendship with a Jew!’ She smiled at this thought, knowing the reputation of General von Falckenstein and having read some of his speeches. Rita answered hotly, astonished by her own annoyance. “I have no friendship with him. He gave me a lift in a taxi on a wet night... . It’s abominable that they should appoint a Jew to inspect this school.” The headmistress was more tolerant. “Oh, I don’t know. Live and let live, that’s the only solution to the Jewish problem in Austria.” “But they don’t let us live!” cried Rita, almost fiercely. “They take all the good places, make all the money, and crow us out of everything. ‘No Christian need apply.’ It’s intolerable.’ She was quoting her father and her brother Hans, who could not get any work to do in Vienna after the war. The headmistress, a comely woman, with a plain plump face and good- natured eyes, laughed indulgently. . ‘You’re an anti-Semite, like your dis- tinguished father! Well, I know many goo Jews, I must say that. And this young man is very clever, they say. Nice, too. He was charming with the children to-day. So kind and humorous. He won all their hearts.” Rita could not deny that he had been charming with the children. She had watched (Continued on page 130)

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Complimentary on request. | | | | | THE HARPER’S BAZAR SIGN OF THE CROOKED CROSS Sir Philip Gibbs’ Story (Continued from page 128) him while he examined them, and had listened to his jokes. He had put his hand on the flaxen curls of a small boy and bent down and asked him about his home-life, and his toys, and pretended to be vastly interested in the child’s rocking-horse which had lost its mane. He seemed to have some magic with children. The eyes of all the class had brightened up. He left them laughing and happy. Certainly he was wonderfully good- looking in his Jewish way. There was some- thing fine and sculpturesque in his face and figure, and his hands were delicate and beautiful. His eyes too were luminous with some inner light. Rita could not help noticing all that, though she detested Jews. HE following week Friiulein Schmidt, the headmistress, spoke to her in the corridor between classes. “Our medical inspector is coming to tea with me this afternoon. One must be civil. But you needn’t join us if you would rather not. I thought I would tell you beforehand.” That half hour’s tea-time in Friulein Schmidt’s room was Rita’s little oasis in this desert of drudgery. It was a joyous break in the tedium of teaching, and she and Friiulein Schmidt—a dear wise soul and very talented—discussed life and literature, and above all music for which they had a passion. It was hard that she should have to give up this treat because that Jewish doctor was coming. She felt very angry about it. All through class time that afternoon the thought rankled in her mind so that she became absent- minded and astonished the children by telling them that New York was the capital of Palestine. Why should she be done out of her tea by any Jew? It wasn’t fair. It was very unkind of Friulein Schmidt to break up their happy half hour like that. Of course she wouldn’t go. A daughter of General von Falckenstein wasn’t going to hobnob with a Jew, hand him tea, ask him whether he wanted another lump of sugar, let him shake hands with her. He would be telling all his fellow Israelities: “‘I happen to know the daughter of General von Falckenstein. Yes, honor bright! Not a_ bad-looking little creature. But arrogant, like that hateful old father of hers. She was civil to me, though! She knows which side her bread is buttered. We Jews—” No, she wouldn’t take tea with Friulein Schmidt at four o'clock. She would join the other mistresses in the com- mon room and listen to their foolish chatter and meaningless laughter. So Rita made up her mind, but at ten minutes past four, by some extraordinary freak of psychology, by some kind of mesmeric spell, she found herself pulled to Friulein Schmidt’s room and tapped at the door. She heard the jolly voice of the headmistress. “* Herein!” She slipped into the room, frightened by this weakness of will, blushing absurdly. “Is there any tea left, Friulein Schmidt?” “Heaps, my child... . You know Dr. Max Hoffmann.” A lurking smile at the corners of Fraulein Schmidt’s large mouth showed that she was amused by this surrender of pride. THE young doctor was sitting at the tea table with a napkin on his lap and some buttered toast in his left hand. At Rita’s entrance he laid down the toast, put the napkin on the tea table and rose from his chair. “This is a good surprise,” he said in a friendly way. Ra er Schmidt told me that you had a headache this afternoon and wouldn’t join us. I hope it’s better.” For the life of her she couldn’t refuse to shake hands with him. After all, it was best to be civil. Noblesse oblige. She pretended that her mythical headache had almost gone. Anyhow she was desperate for a cup of tea. Ne were talking about music,” said Friiulein Schmidt. “Dr. Hoffmann’s brother is leading violin at the opera. And he composed the wonderful prelude we heard the other night at that restaurant in the Prater. Do you remember how we loved it?” She hummed a bar or two. “Delicious! So fresh and gay and spring- like. ‘Vienna Before the War.’ It made me want to weep.” “You did weep!” said Rita. “My brother David is rather a genius,” remarked Dr. Hoffmann. “Such a nice fellow, too, as simple as a child, and full of enthusiasm for every form of art. He amuses me vastly and we’re great comrades. He can’t understand my devotion to science. He thinks it so dull and unbeautiful. Perhaps it is, in a way, compared with music.” “Science is the beauty of natural law,” said Rita. “‘Even music wouldn't exist with- out scientific knowledge.” She spoke calmly, pedantically, like the little schoolmistress she was, but it was to hide her nervousness. Anyhow she couldn’t let this doctor run down his own science. “T like to hear you say that,” said Dr. Hoffmann, gratefully. “T think so, too, but other people don’t see it in that way. My brother and I have terrific arguments. Some- times we get very angry with each other and then roar with laughter.” Fxiulein Schmidt announced some with excitement in her voice. “Dr. Hoffmann has offered us tickets at the opera whenever we like to have them. Isn’t that wonderful!” “My brother can always let me have two or three when I ask him,” said the doctor, “T should be delighted if you would make use of them. How about next Saturday?” Friiulein Schmidt looked at Rita. “Would that suit you, my dear?” Just for one moment Rita hesitated. It was accepting another favor from this young Jew. Her father and brother would be furious, if they knew. She would be furious herself if she allowed herself to make friends with him. But they were playing ‘ Madame Butterfly,” which she adored. She had longed to go and couldn’t afford it. This offer was frightfully tempting. “It would suit me perfectly, Friiulein Schmidt,” she answered in a timid voice. It was another link in the chain of fate which drew her close to Max Hoffmann. news HE and Friulein Schmidt ‘met him on that Saturday night at the opera, and on other nights at concerts for which he obtained tickets from his brother. Some- times he merely came up and asked if they had liked the music and did not press his company upon them. Then he invited them to have supper with him after the opera and Friulein Schmidt coaxed her to go, though she hated the idea of it. For Friulein Schmidt's sake, yes, certainly for her sake, she accepted the invitation, and was a little terror stricken lest her brother should come into the restaurant at the corner of Kiirtner- strasse—until she forgot her fear in the interest of Dr. Hoffmann’s conversation. This young man had read so much that he seemed to know everything and talked on all sorts of subjects in a serious but entertaining way, without any self-conceit or laying down the law, but as though he valued Friulein Schmidt’s and even Rita’s opinion more than his own. He had known E ngland before the war and was very interesting in his analysis of English character and showed how clearly it was revealed in their fiction. He knew France, too, and was fair to the French, even about their entry of the Ruhr. He believed in the future power of the League of Nations, when Germany and Russia would be inside it, and thought the only hope of avoiding another European war was in the extension of arbitration, and the revolt of de- mocracy against the use of war as an argument. Rita listened and agreed. They were her own thoughts. And yet she had a sense of uneasiness—even of guilt. The Jews were pacifists because they had no country of their own and no patriotism. They had the international mind because of their relatives in all countries. And they were scheming to overthrow civilization by world revolution, after which they would seize the wealth and power of the world as they had done in Russia. Her father had told her so a thousand times. Her brother firmly believed it. Her mother dreamt about it in dreadful nightmares of Red Terror as it had happened in Petro- grad Cr evening after another concert she sat alone with Dr. Hoffmann. It was in that restaurant in the Kiirtnerstrasse. An unfortunate thing had happened, dreadfully embarrassing. Just as the young doctor had ordered supper Friulein Schmidt remembered that she had locked out two of the mistresses who slept at the school. They had gone out for an evening’s amusement and she had forgotten to give them the keys. They were in her pocket now! ‘I must fly!” she said breathlessly. “Doctor, please forgive me for spoiling this little supper party, and a thousand thanks for all your kindness!’ Rita rose from her chair, looking frightened, and said: “I'd better go, too. ‘ “No, no!” cried Friiulein Schmidt. “Eat your supper, child especially as the doctor will have to pay for it! She whispered to Rita. “You can’t possibly be so rude!’ That was true. It would have been abominably rude of Rita to refuse to have supper with Dr. Hoffmann because Friiulein Schmidt was leaving them. It would look like a deliberate insult. And after all he was (Continued on page 132)

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hes \ 2 lid Silver “Where Jt “Wears Beneath the surface beauty of pattern there ig superior quality that pives added years of ser- vice to HOLMES & EDWARDS SUPER PLATE-INLAJD This quality has a dis- tinctive feature that no ordinary’ silverplate possesses. All pieces most often used have blocks of Solid Silver inlaid under the heavy? plate at the two rest oints as illustrated low. uper Plate-Inlaid costs ou no more than ordi- nary silverplate and is unqualifiedly Suaran- teed to ive satisfaction. ay AAS) Back of the Back of bowl handle with showinaSolid Solid Silver Silver k Block to be to be infai inlaid before where the plating where wear is hard- it rubs on fhe est. These in- tableorcloth. laysaere invis- A distinct ible after Holmes & _ heavy plate Edwards of puresilver \ feature. is applied. HOLMES § EDWARDS SUPER PLATE-INLAID Jodownd duseeatond bythe Holmes @ Ed wendeSitver Co. ©'S.co0.1926 Sites dt on 2 A ee pooos, Expense, ¢ ee THE HARPER’S BAZAR SIGN OF THE CROOKED CROSS Sir Philip Gibbs’ Story (Continued from page 130) so serious and kind and charming. Yes, she must admit that there was a charm about him which put a strange spell upon her. . . . She stayed. He was very attentive and yet without any tricks or graces. He talked a good deal about the psychology of children which he seemed to understand with a wonderful intuition and delicacy of mind. He told some amusing stories about the children he met on his medical inspection of schools, and made her laugh. It was while she was laughing that she caught the eyes of a man looking at her. They were astonished, angry, reproachful eyes which she knew very well, and she blushed deeply to see them so watchful of her. They belonged to one of her brother’s friends— Karl von Hahnke—who came often to her father’s flat, too often lately and with a purpose which made her feel afraid when she thought about it. The way he looked at her at home, the pressure of his hand, his eagerness to sit next to her at table had begun to alarm her. Only the other day he had asked her to go to a dance with him on this very even- ing and she had pleaded her engagement with Friiulein Schmidt at the opera. It had been so easy to use Friiulein Schmidt’s name to satisfy the curiosity of her family about her frequent evenings away from home. Never once had she mentioned Dr. Max Hoffmann. Now Karl von Hahnke saw her having supper alone with a young Jew, like any loose girl of Vienna, laughing with him, drinking his wine. It would look frightfully bad. Karl was one of the leaders of the Hakenkreuz because of his name and title. He hated all Jews with undisguised contempt and was more scornful of them, more bitter in his speech, even, than her father. He would certainly tell her parents when he came to the house again, and the silence she had kept about this young doctor, the foolish, cowardly silence, would make things much worse. She felt the color ebb from her face. She knew that her lips were cold and white. “You are unwell,” said Dr. Max Hoffmann, suddenly. “It’s the heat in here. Suffocat- ing!” “Ves,” said Rita, “I feel a little faint.” He left some money on the table—a wad of notes—and abandoned the end of the supper. He offered his arm to Rita and she took it, feeling alarmingly unwell because of this fright. They passed very close to Karl von Hahnke and he rose from his chair and made a stiff bow, and looked savagely at Dr. Hoffmann. Other people stared at them, perhaps because of her white face. A girl dining with another young Jew—one of the oiled young men—snickered as she passed. She even heard her name spoken in a whisper. “General von Falckenstein’s daughter!” T WAS the second time that she drove in a taxi with Max Hoffmann. He took her home, as on that rainy night when she had first met him. He let down the window so that she should feel some air on her face. “They — those restaurants abomina- bly,” he said On the doorstep of the house where she lived she gave him her hand and said: “ You are very kind. A thousand thanks.” He did not let go her hand immediately, but held it for a moment while their eyes met. There was something in his eyes, and a kind of electric shock passing through her veins, which frightened her. He spoke shyly, rather huskily. “T would rather like to kiss you. Would you mind very much?” She felt her heart beating, almost painfully. “No, no,” she said. “‘ Please!’ “Just once,” he urged. “Here in this doorway. I would give everything in the world—” She felt him draw her toward him, and a kind of weakness overcame her so that she could not resist. He put his arms about her and kissed her on the lips, in the darkness there. “I love you with all my heart,” he whis- pered. “Since that first night we met—in the raina—under the lamp post where the light was on your face—” She struggled out of his arms, and gave a little cry of dismay. There was a rush of tears to her eyes as she fled from him up the stone steps. Outside the door of her flat she had to wait until the flow of tears had stop- ped and her heart had ceased beating so wildly. al Neither her father nor mother noticed that she had committed the worst sin in the world, in their faith and view of life as Catholics of the old régime. She was in love with a Jew, and because she was of her parents’ faith and blood and caste, brought up since childhood to regard the Jewish race as the enemies of religion—her religion—as well as rebels against the State and society under the old Emperor of Austria who had been her father’s friend, she felt that the love which had captured her was shameful and unholy. How was it possible that she a Catholic girl, to whom her religion had meant every- thing most sacred in life—who had been brought up in a convent school—who had often prayed for a vocation as a nun—could give her lips, and her heart, to a man who denied the divinity of Christ, and belonged to a race plotting, as her father told her, for the downfall of Christianity and civilization? HAT night she wept bitterly down on her knees by her bedside, with her hands flung across the coverlet and her forehead pressed against the mattress. She prayed God to help her and give her strength to resist the temptation of this love. But though her room was in darkness, and her wet eyes were closed and pressed against the bedside, the face of Max Hoffmann, so fine and delicate, so serious and chivalrous, was apparent to her, as though his living presence were in the room, bright in this darkness. She felt him drawing her toward him, and aes to swoon again at his passionate RE i She dared not tell her mother and father, nor her brother Hans. Time and time again, at breakfast or supper, when they were all together, she tried to get courage to say something about Max Hoffmann. The words trembled on her lips. “There is a young Jewish doctor I know. ... He gave me a lift in a taxi once, when it was raining very hard. ... He is a great friend of Fraulein Schmidt... .” But her courage failed her, always. How could she possibly tell them when at every meal, by some malign chance, the question of the Jews came up, and either her father or Hans cursed them as the cause of all the evil in Austria, if not of the world? Hans was getting ready for a great march of the Hakenkreuzler throuth Vienna. “Tt will make the Yids feel nervous for their throats,” he said. ‘Ten thousand Hakenkreuzler, and all ex-soldiers, with the sign of the swastika on their arms. If any Jews dare to cross our path on Sunday we'll kill them like rats. They know jolly well what we stand for. A united German race, and to hell with Jews, Bolsheviks, and Mr. Poincaré!” Generzl von Falckenstein smiled indul- gently at his son’s violence of speech. “Tt’s no good asking for trouble, my lad! You needn’t go out of your way to kill Jews or anybody else. The Hakenkreusler must behave with dignity and _ self-control as defenders of the old traditions and men of discipline.” “Quite so,” said Hans. “All the same I wouldn’t mind a ‘regrettable incident’ as the papers call it. We could spare a Jew or two from Vienna, without shedding tears about it, and it would be a good advertisement for the Hakenkreuz.” Rita suddenly found herself speaking, excitedly, emotionally: “T think what you say is horrible! It’s utterly unchristian.... Our Lord came on earth to preach love, not hate. He said ‘Thou shalt not kill’. ... Why should you want to kill Jews? They are good people and human like ourselves. They have mothers and fathers and little children. They obey the law and live peaceful lives. We owe a lot to them in art and music and trade. What would Vienna be without the Jews? We should all die of starvation, as we nearly died before they brought in money and revived trade, and all that. Her brother Hans stared at her with astonished eyes and then laughed loudly. ‘Good Heavens! Our little Rita is defend- ing the Jews! Saint Rita—who nearly became a nun—is upholding the race who have the curse of Christ upon them. Can we believe our ears?” ” ENERAL VON FALCKENSTEIN took hold of his daughter’s hand at the break- fast table and patted it. “Our little Rita speaks like a good girl. Only she doesn’t understand. Charity is misplaced toward people who deny the faith of Christ, who plot and scheme in all parts of the world to undermine its laws, and teach atheism and revolution to the rising generation in all countries where their evil influence spreads. Look at Russia, my dear Rita. Look at the work of the Jews there. Do you want Austria to become like that, with blasphemous texts carved on the walls— Religion is the opium of the people’— and a gang of Jewish cut-throats enslé ving the spirit and bodies of the nations? If we don’t defend ourselves—if we don’t organize such bodies as the Hakenkreus ready to fight for faith and country—that is what will happen to us. Beyond any doubt. The Hakenkreuzler, whom I have the honor to (Continued on page 133)

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~ ao See 6LClUWGS CU FEBRUARY THE for 1926 SIGN OF THE CROOKED CROSS Sir Philip Gibbs’ Story (Continued from page 132) command’’—he could not resist that touch of pride—‘‘are modern crusaders sworn to defend the cross of Christ.” “One cannot defend Christianity by murder,” said Rita, passionately. Her father colored up angrily, and released her hand. “There is no question of murder. I must beg of you not to use such words.” “Hans wants a ‘regrettable incident,’ ” said Rita; “what is that but a chance of killing some poor Jew?” “After provocation or insult,” von Falckenstein gravely. He rose from his chair at the table, pushing away his coffee cup. “T desire this conversation to cease. You are obviously unwell, my dear. Nerves, no doubt. I think you ought to see a doctor.” What he said was perfectly true, apart from his last suggestion. Rita von Falcken- stein was exceedingly unwell in mind, though not in body. Her nerves were unstrung by mental and spiritual conflict. But she was seeing too much of a doctor, and he was the cause of her malady. She had seen him almost every night for three weeks since that evening when he had kissed her in her father’s door- way. On the following evening he had waited for her outside the school-house and had come up to her with an eager look, half aby. half glad, in those dark luminous eyes of is. “Have you forgiven me?” he asked. ‘That kiss—I had no right—it was unpardonable—” said General Bo T unpardonable as it might be he had kissed her again that very evening in the darkness of a side street near the school- house under a blank wall, and almost every night since. She had not had the strength of mind to refuse. In his presence she could not deny her love for him. Some terrific attraction in his personality broke down all her prejudice and fear. It was partly because of his gentleness, his tenderness. How could she think of him as a man who wanted to ruin civilization and destroy faith in God when he was devoting his life to good work, and loved children and beauty? “Nothing matters except your love,” he pleaded. “I worship the light in your eyes, your smile, the sound of your voice—’ She told him it was impossible—this love of theirs. “T’m a Catholic,” she said, “and you’re a Jew. Don’t you see that we mustn’t love each other?” “No!” he answered. that I love you.’ “You hate my religion,” she said pitifully. “How can I love you without sin?” He laughed at that and put her hands to “T don’t see. I know ips. “I don’t hate your religion. I don’t hate anybody’s religion. Where Love is, there God is also. Wasn’t it old Tolstoi who said that? Anyhow it’s my faith.” “You don’t believe in Christ,” said Rita. The young doctor was silent and thoughtful for a moment. He poked the point of his umbrella into a crack in the pavement in that side street by her school-house where they stood away from the light of the street lamp. “T believe in Christ’s goodness,”’ he said. “If all Christians would live up to Christ’s teaching it would be a wonderful world. Believe me, I’m not bigoted.” “That isn’t enough,” said Rita. “‘How can we love each other when you couldn’t follow me into church, when it would all seem mockery to you—the altar, the candles, the pictures of the saints, the statue of the Blessed Virgin—all that seems beautiful to me? “T will stand outside,” he said, humbly. “Without mockery—with prayers in my heart to make me worthy of you—to make you happy.” “We can never be happy, the tears filled her eyes. ” she cried, and Hé DID not seem to understand the strength of the barriers between them— Social as well as religious, political as well as social. Her father had been an equerry of the old Emperor. His family was one of the oldest and noblest of Austria. His present verty had not broken his pride or made forget his family history—those knights end barons of the Holy Roman Empire. He would rather see Rita dead than wedded to a Jew. All her relatives, her old aunts, and her innumerable cousins would be scandalize 1 and horrified. They would never speak to her again. She would be cast out by her own People. ‘Don’t you understand?” she said, one evening as they stood together in the shadow of the blank wall after school hours when he had come to meet her again. “Can’t I make you understand? My father is General von Falckenstein, who commands the Haken- kreuz. He would kill me if he knew that I loved you ever so little If he could see me now as you hold my hand.” _The young doctor laughed, but with bitterness and vexation. “Tt’s incredible!” he said. ‘‘At this time in the world’s history! I can’t believe in such stupidity—such damnable intolerance. I thought it was just the hot air of politics— that stuff in his speeches. Surely he wouldn’t wreck your happiness or prevent our love simply because I have Jewish blood? .. . It isn’t bad blood after all. It goes back a long way. Our prophets and patriarchs came fairly early in the world’s history and their God is your father’s God, presumably. I’m not a rich man, but I’m not a bandit! I do my best to cure Christian children when I find them ill. They’re not afraid. of me, I think.” “They love you,” said Rita. ‘They’re always talking about their kind doctor.” “Then why should your father shut his door against me?” asked Dr. Max Hoffmann. “He is a Catholic,” said Rita. “He thinks that the Jews are working for world revolu- tion. He thinks that without the Haken- kreuz they would do to Austria what they have done to Russia.” Dr. Max Hoffmann pushed his hat to the back of his head as though to air his brain a little. Then he laughed again, as though only humor could deal with this situation. “Tt’s ridiculous for us to stand here talking politics. What has love to do with all that nonsense? ... I suppose there are mad fools here and there working for world revolution. I’ve never met them. In my own family we work at other things. My mother mends her sons’ shirts and socks. My brother David works at music day and night to give a little melody to life. I work at this doctors’ drudgery with ambition for research work. Russia? Well, they are not all Jews there. Lenin wasn’t a Jew. Nor Tchicherin and others. . . . I suppose it was natural that Jews should come to the top in time of revolution. They had _ nimbler brains—and better education—than Russian peasants. They had old scores to wipe out- the memory of many massacres and horrors done against the Jewish race. Jews have their fanatics like other races. They are not nobler, or better, or worse than other people. . . . But I can’t see any sense in this bogey of Bolshevism as far as the Jews are concerned. So far from wanting to overthrow capital most of my people want to get more of it and keep it safe! . He smiled at this thought, find a joke in it. “That’s the general accusation against us, and rather true. We think too much of money getting, most of us, though there are millions of poor Jews who don’t get much. But the other thing can’t be true at the same time. People don’t destroy the sources of wealth if wealth is their object in life. This anti- Semite stuff seems to me so illogical. I can’t make head or tail of it. I don’t want to, I’ve no patience with it. I believe in human brotherhood, kindliness, hatred of cruelty, peace and love. I believe most of all in love. I want it most of all, between you and me, Rita. Let me kiss you again. ... There is no one passing! Please. Just a very little one, while I put my arms round you, while I hold you like this.” “We are wicked,” said Rita. “I feel ashamed. Oh, my dear—my dear lover!” and seemed to T WAS a terrible situation for her. She felt guilty not only because of the secrecy of this love and the barriers of family intoler- ance but because of her own religious scruples and agonies of conscience. How could she marry a man who did not believe in her faith? She went to early morning mass before her hard day’s work and prayed for guidance before the statue of the Blessed Virgin in Stephankirche. She even_prayed that Max Hoffmann might become a Catholic, but when she told him that he smiled and shook his head. “T’m an incurable free-thinker. Not even a good Jew. I believe only in humanity and love and beauty. That is my Holy Trinity. She pleaded with him. “Max—for my love’s sake—become a Christian! Let us worship at the same altar. How beautiful that would be! Then we could go hand in hand to my father— She slipped little books of Catholic devotion into his pocket and made him promise to read them. She thought out arguments and read up evidence to prove the divinity of Christ and interrupted his love-making in obscure little restaurants where now and again they stole half an hour at lunch time for secret meetings. He listened always with tolerance, unbroken patience, but also with amusement. “Don’t let’s worry about religion!” he said. ‘Isn’t our love enough?” (Continued on page 134) | 133 “Jarnac is all your skin will ever need, My Dear; look at mine!” One Essential Cream! (Your Skin Needs Nothing Else) AT EVERY TURN you meet advice on beauty. But the real truth about your complexion will go in one sentence: Keep your skin clean, and it will grow beautiful. Let that scientific fact be the begin- ning and end of your confidence in cosmetics. Most imperfect skins are the result of trying too hard to help them. And every beautiful skin is a sign that it has been Jet alone. It has been kept clean, of course. For perfect, pore-deep cleanliness gives Nature its only chance to make a skin fair and smooth. You do need a cream for cleansing, though. Soap and water to start the process. A careful cream to complete it. There is a cream that does completely cleanse the cuticle and purge the pores. It’s called Jarnac; it’s a French formula, but surprisingly simple and bland. Women can’t get used to its mildness. It isn’t even medicated. Yet the same thing al- ways happens when it’s used; a week or two, and your fingers feel the new softness; a new color comes, and stays. And for these reasons: A cream made like Jarnac is not absorbed. It does its work and departs. It neutralizes every skin acid. It removes every pore im- purity. It does not “feed” the pores. Nor “close” them. A clean pore is never distended. 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134 OWNFIELD ALL \ OUTDOORS , \\ \ y, USTLY proud indeed is the young lady who chooses for street and travel, this swagger Townfield Tailleur, with its coat of needlepoint home- spun, smartly lined to match the striped washable silk frock worn beneath. cAt Smart Shops Everywhere. FINGER-CAHN COMPANY INCORPORATED 270 WEST 38TH STREET, NEW YORK THE HARPER’S BAZAR SIGN OF THE CROOKED CROSS Sir Philip Gibbs’ Story (Continued from page 133) Over and over again he pressed her to go to his own house to meet his father and mother and that brother of his, the musician. And at last she yielded, and spent an evening with his people. But it wasn’t a success. Even he admitted that afterwards ruefully. She saw at once that there was an invisible barrier between herself and Max Hoffmann’s family and friends. His father and mother were kind and polite, they called her “my dear,” and offered her their simple hospitality, but she saw that they were uneasy, watchful and disapproving of their son’s love affair. Their conversation was forced and guarded. Now and again Max Hoffmann’s mother, a delicate-looking woman with gray hair and a thin lined face which had once been beauti- ful—Max had inherited his fine profile from her—sighed deeply as though she found Rita’s visit a strain. The father, a scholarly looking man with a pointed beard, was a professor of Oriental languages and was very grave and courteous, but he was painfully nervous and ill at ease and lapsed into silences which Rita found embarrassing. It was unfortunate that they had invited several relations and friends to meet this Catholic girl. Two of them were young men of the smart and rather oily type which Rita had been taught to dislike so much. They talked a good deal of their financial specula- tions and profits. They were jaunty, self- assured, conceited, and their black-eyed young ladies exchanged smiling glances with them and giggled at secret jokes, and were affected in their conversation with Rita. Max Hoffmann himself was nervous and obviously conscious of Rita’s sense of isolation and strangeness in this company. He tried to encourage a general conversation, but there were so many subjects that had to be avoided between the daughter of General von Falcken- stein and his own people that it was all rather stilted and unnatural: One girl there was not even friendly. Rita was aware of her hostility as soon as they were introduced. She was an opera singer named Rachel Goldstein, and extremely good looking with big dark eyes and an oval face, like one of Murillo’s Madonnas. She did not address a single word to Rita, though for a time they sat next to each other, and Rita was aware of the coldness and contempt and dislike which lurked in this girl’s watch- ful glances. That was when Max Hoffmann led Rita to the other end of the room to talk to his mother who could find nothing but the weather as a safe topic. The situation was eased a little when the musician brother arrived—a cheery good- natured fellow with a shock of curly hair and untidy clothes, who kissed Rita’s hand, and plunged straightway into a talk about music. Te was an artist to his finger tips and later in the evening played some of his own compo- sitions with a fire and humor which Rita found delightful. ONCE he spoke to her in a whisper when the others were talking among them- selves. “T expect you feel a bit strange here? It’s because they are all shy of you. But Max is a dear, isn’t he? One of our ideal- ists. .. . How do you like this little dance of mine?” Max Hoffmann took her home as far as the doorstep of the house in which her people had a second-floor flat. That was his limit. He had never crossed that frontier which divided him from Rita’s family. On the way, as they walked arm in arm ‘under an umbrella which hid them from the passers-by hurrying down the dark streets where the lamp light lay in pools on the wet pavements, she asked a frank question of him. “*Max, are your father and mother pleased with this love of ours?” He hesitated for a moment as though about to prevaricate and then answered truth- fully. “Not altogether! You see, they are very old fashioned in their notions, and terribly narrow.” “They don’t like the idea of your marrying a Catholic girl?” “This religious intolerance!’’ he exclaimed ruefully. “It’s ghastly—on both sides. My mother’s father was killed in a pogrom at Riga. She can’t forget that. It makes her bitter, poor soul.” “They want you to marry Rachel Gold- stein,” said Rita. He was quite startled at those words, and raised his umbrella as he turned to look at her. “How on earth did you know that? ... Did any one tell you?” “T guessed it,” said Rita. “Your mother kept looking at her with a kind of pity. And Rachel Goldstein hates me for taking you away from her.” “I was never hers,” said Max Hoffmann. “T’ve always avoided her. She’s too much of the vamp.” Rita drooped her head a little as she walked with her hand on his arm. “Max, you had much better marry one of your own race. This love of ours will only end in tragedy. Everything is against us, Perhaps even God.”’ He put his arm about her waist, like a shop assistant with his sweetheart making love on a wet night in the darkness. “T love you—and God is love. I’m not going to let intolerance stand between us, Neither your parents nor mine have any right to interfere between you and me. [ don’t care the snap of a finger for religious bigotry, political hatred, or social caste. With your love, my dear, I can face life without a qualm of fear. All we need is courage to face poverty together, as now we face it alone. I have my eye on a little flat—” “T’m a coward,” said Rita, in a low voice. “T’m afraid of my father and brother. And I’m afraid of your relations. And I’m afraid of all my Catholic friends. It will mean giving up everything in my old life. I shall be an outcast from my own people and a wat J among yours. It’s true I want your love— “Nothing else matters,” said the young doctor. “Our love! And love is so rare and priceless. ... In the poorest rooms it would be light enough and warmth enough. ace It’s the only beauty in this ugly old world. There’s no squalor when it touches life. . It makes everything else seem so petty and negligible. Since I loved you I see everything in a new aspect. This wet street— how jolly it is with you and me walking arm and arm, under a dripping umbrella! Those lighted windows with their drawn blinds—how cozy inside those rooms if you and I were sitting at the same table in a little home of our own, not bothering about the outside world, envious of no man’s wealth whatever our poverty. And you would inspire me to do good work, to be unselfish, and generous in service to poor folk. I would try to live a Christ-like life—Jew as I am, and as far as man can.” “Oh, my love, my dear love!” cried Rita, and she felt the tears wet on her cheeks and pressed the arm of the man whom she loved with a passion which sometimes seemed like sin. HE had called herself a coward and yet she showed some courage outwardly when she arrived home that evening. Karl von Hahnke had been there with her mother and father and her brother Hans. He had waited for her, said her mother, very much hoping to see her. By the way they looked at her, by some deep and terrible suspicion in their eyes, she knew at once that Karl had told them about the evening when he had seen her alone with Max Hoffmann in that restaurant at the corner of the Kiirtner- strasse. “‘Where have you been, my dear?” asked her mother, in a quiet tense voice. “T went to see some friends of Friulein Schmidt,” she answered, afraid of the tremor in her voice. There was a silence, and then her brother Hans spoke in a hard tone. “T happened to meet Fraulein Schmidt this evening. She was dining with Professor Arnholz and his wife. She didn’t seem to know that you were going out this evening!” “No,” said Rita. “I arranged it hurriedly. Over the telephone.”’ It was true that Max had telephoned to her, and yet she was evading the truth, and had a sense of shame and fear. ; “Who were these friends of Fraulein Schmidt?” asked her father. He spokz harshly like a judge examining 4 prisoner. ; “Tt was a family called Hoffmann,” said Rita. “They were very kind.” She heard her mother draw a quiet breath and saw her put a hand on her father’s sleeve as though to restrain his anger. Her brother was pale and had a sullen mouth. “Did you dine with a Jew of that name in a public restaurant?” asked her father. “T cannot believe it, but there is some story of the sort. I give you a chance of denying “It is true,” said Rita. “Why not, father?” It was that “why not” which seemed to madden him. She saw a kind of purplish tint creep below his skin. He had risen from his chair and then sat back again grasping its arms so tightly that the veins swell on the backs of his hands. “You dare to ask me ‘why not?’” he asked. “You dine in a public restaurant with a young Jew and you ask me ‘why not? The daughter of General von Falkenstein, degrad- ing an honored name, betraying her family and faith, selling her honor to a Jew, drinking (Continued on page 135)

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FEBRUARY THE 1926 SIGN OF THE CROOKED CROSS Sir Philip Gibbs’ Story (Continued from page 134) wine with him among harlots, laughing with him in public places—by God—lI cannot believe it, though you stand there and confess.” “Hush!” said Rita’s mother. “Hush, father!’ “He is a doctor,” said Rita. “He spends his time doing good to Catholic children. He is very kind and noble.” Rita’s father made queer noises in his throat. She thought he was choking. Little red veins appeared about his eyes. Her brother Hans broke in again harshly. She had been his comrade in days of child- hood, and since, but he forgot all that in his flaming anger. “You must have gone mad, Rita! What the devil do you mean by it all? Karl says that you’ve been seen in other places with that Jew blackguard. A friend of his said he saw you the other night in the Prater, holding hands with a long-nosed Jew like a shop girl on the spree! Karl was so furious that he threatened to bash his friend across the head if he didn’t withdraw such a dirty accusation against a lady’s honor. But I’ve not the slightest doubt it’s true after what you’ve confessed already.” “Quite true,” said Rita. She did not speak aggressively or defiantly, but in a quiet, low voice. She had known from the beginning that this scene must happen one day. Now it had come, and she prayed for courage. “Have you taken leave of your senses, my dear?”’ asked her mother with a kind of sob in her voice. “If it had been with any Catholic young man it would have been bad enough. You made us think you were going to concerts with Friiulein Schmidt. You deceived your father and me. That would have been hard to forgive after all our love. But with a Jew! Your father’s daughter! Dear God, it’s unbelievable. Why have you done it, Rita? Tell us why. Help us to understand.” “Because I love him,” quiet low voice of hers. It was as though she had stricken them dumb for a little whiie. General von Falckenstein stared at his daughter with a kind of horror in his eyes. Frau von Falckenstein became very pale so that there was no color even in her lips. She seemed to shrink in her chair. Hans stood up and walked to the window and kicked a hassock out of his way, and then stayed rigid as though turned to stone. It was Hans who broke this frightful silence at last. “God in Heaven! You have the nerve to say you love a Jew? . thought you were a good Catholic like ‘the rest of us. Didn’t you want to be a nun once? Weren’t you brought up in a convent school? Don’t you go to mass every morn- ing? I wonder Christ doesn’t strike you blind or dead. Don’t you know that the Jews hate our religion? Don’t you know they’re plotting for the downfall of Christianity and civilization itself? Aren’t you living in Vienna where they’ve strangled us by getting rich out of our ghastly ruin? Isn’t every one of them in league with the Hebrew murderers of Moscow? . . Let me catch you with said Rita, in that your Jew. ‘By God, ll kill him first and strangle you afterwards.” Tush!’ cried Frau von Falckenstein. “Hans, my son! Rita’s father leaned forward in his chair and fumbled for his empty pipe. “Hans speaks with too much violence,’ he said. “I speak more calmly, with my words well weighed. If Rita will not promise to give up this Jew—he has put some evil spell upon her—and never see him again— never!—I will not let her live here as a daughter of mine. If she loves the Jews she must live with the Jews, and may God have mercy on ber soul!” He rose solemnly like a judge who has delivered sentence, and walked toward the door to go to his bedroom. _ Then suddenly something seemed to break in him and he turned and gave a strange convulsive sob and cried out, “Rita! my little daughter! My little Rita!” and fell nto a chair, with his hand clutched to his side while his eyes glazed and the right side of his face became horribly twisted. It was Rita who ran first to him and put her arms about him with a cry of “Father. yE T she could not give up Max Hoffmann, not even though her love had nearly killed her father. All but lovers will blame her for that. None but lovers will understand her weakness as well as her strength. Her mother marveled at her obstinacy and thought she must be possessed by the devil because she refused to give that promise which her fathe er desired. “How can I give up my love?” she asked. “How can I break the heart of a man who is so kind and noble and unselfish? He is a Jew, yes, but the best Christian I have met. Christlike, mother! He doesn’t want to kill his enemies, like Hans does. He hates cruelty, and loves children, and beauty, and good work. I cannot give him up. That was her strength, her obstinacy. Her weakness was hidden—those nights of tears, those hours of surrender to forces stronger for a time than love—social, religious, racial. Karl von Hahnke was willing to marry her in spite of that episode with Max Hoffmann. He belonged to her own caste. He believed in her own faith. He was good-looking, good- natured, well-to-do because of his business in Germany. His relatives would welcome her because of her name and quality. If she married him she would give great joy to her own family and wipe out all this tragedy, perhaps straighten her father’s twisted hand and restore the speech he had lost after that dreadful stroke. It would be so easy and so pleasant to marry Karl von Hahnke—if she didn’t love Max Hoffmann, the Jew, whose people disliked her, who refused to believe in the divinity of Christ, who drudged as a doctor on miserable pay in the Children’s Clinic in Vienna. With him she would be an outcast from her own folk, a stranger among his, as she had told him one night with tears. She shrank in terror from the prospect— that sacrifice—with a clear vision of its tragedy. And yet she knew that this love of hers could not be surrendered without greater tragedy. Max Hoffmann’s first kiss upon her lips had sealed them in a compact which only death could break. Friulein Schmidt was her accomplice and her go-between. This plump, sweet-natured, calm-eyed woman had no sympathy with the anti- Semite prejudice of the Hakenkreus. “Love between two human souls,” she said, ‘is above all racial or religious prejudice. . . . aus I’m all for Max Hoffmann. He’s a dear! It’s not his fault that he was born a Jew. Besides, I suppose God made the Jews as well as the Christians, and the Buddhists and Mohammedans. They’re very good people. Some of them are more Christian the an the Christians. And—good Heavens— we're not living in the Middle Ages! Anyhow, my chicken, he’s coming & tea this after- noon and I’ve blind eyes and deaf ears when lovers meet in my rooms. As a fat old Mddchen ('m incurably sentimental.” She was not only incurably sentimental but wonderfully self-sacrificing in the cause of love, and several times she pretended to receive sudden calls to other parts of the school building so that Rita might be left alone with Max Hoffmann. The young Jewish doctor took advantage of those precious minutes. His arms were about Rita before the door was shut upon them. It was in one of those quarters of an hour that he urged her to marry him without delay. ““Next week!” he said. ‘When the school holidays begin. ... We'll have a honey- moon in some beauty spot. Then we'll come back to the little flat I have my eye on. It’s not large, but it’s cheap and we can make it happier than if we had a palace. We'll furnish it with laughter and love. We'll hang it with tapestries of dreams. There'll be kisses for our banquets. Little Rita, w hat do you say? “T’m afraid,” she cried. And yet she screwed up her courage. She would slip out of her father’s flat and meet this lover of hers outside the Stephankirche. Friiulein Schmidt would be there, and Max’s brother David. It would be the end of one tragedy—and the beginning of the next, as she knew in spite of her love. N THE Saturday evening before the Monday when she was to make this flight from those who had been most dear to her in life—before she had met Max Hoffmann— her brother came into her bedroom when she was packing a few clothes into a hand-bag for that adventure—that journey to a new life from which she could never turn back. She was weeping a little over the thought of that and tried to hide her tears when Hans tapped at her door and came in without waiting for an answer. He had a military tunic over his arm—his old uniform, without badges and shoulder straps, which he had worn in the war. He did not seem to notice her tear-stained face and spoke in his old brotherly way, as though he had forgotten and forgiven the cause of the quarrel that had estranged them so bitterly. “Sorry to bother you, but do a little job of sewing for me, will you? Mother is lying down.” ‘Have you torn something?” asked Rita She felt tears in her heart rather than in her eyes because this would be the last bit of sewing she could ever do for this brother of hers, who had been her best comrade. (Continued on page 156) | “She Walks in Beauty’ in Her“ House of Youth? Attire } Beauty as complete, spontaneous as the artist’s dream can formulate. Beauty created from all that is fine in fabric, lovely in color, graceful and svelte in contour. 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136 Martin L. Davey President of The Davey Tree Expert Company, Inc., Kent, Ohio A personal message to the tree owners of America In 1925 nearly 600 Davey Tree Surgeons gave expert care to the trees of 13,000 clients, from Boston to Kansas City, and from Canada to the Gulf. A large per cent of these clients last year, and in the preceding years, have sent voluntary letters of commen- dation, in every case speaking in high praise of the men who had served them. Davey Tree Surgeons are certainly unusual men, of a uniformly high type. They are intelligent, industrious and conscientious. They are reliable. They are expert because they have been thoroughly trained, both practically and scientifically. This uniform high quality of men is not an accident. It is the result of a deliberate policy of selection and elimi- nation, that has been carried on over a considerable period of years. We neither employ nor keep men who are lazy or dishonest or careless. If one of the wrong kind slips in, we get rid of him as soon as he is discovered. Those who are left with us, after the process of elimi- nation has done its effective work, are an inspiring group of young American manhood who love their work, and who do it with rare skill, industry and devotion. THE DAVEY TREE EXPERT CO., Inc. 590 City Bank Building Kent, Ohio THE SIGN OF THE CROOKED CROSS Sir “Tt’s this arm-band,” said Hans. “The Hakenkreuz. 1 want you to sew it round my left sleeve so that it won’t slip down. We’re marching through the city to-morrow, and I’m in the leading company with Karl von Hahnke.” He handed over the armlet, with its red Hakenkreuz—the sign of the crooked cross or swastika, as it is called in most countries | where this oldest charm in the world is still used as a lucky emblem. Rita picked up her needle and cotton, but for a moment she hesitated to take the armlet. This Hakenkreuz in Austria was the badge of the Nationalists. It stood for all that was intolerant and aggressive-Pan-Germanism, militarism, hatred of Socialists, hatred of Jews. At one time it was the sign of her own faith, but now she disliked it. It symbol- ized the hatred of her family to Max Hoffmann whom she was going to marry on Monday. “How high up?” she asked. And Hans put his finger on the sleeve of his tunic and said: “Just about there.” He watched her while she sewed the thing on and there was a little smile about his lips, as though it amused him to see her doing this work. “It’s going to be a great show!”’ he said. “Ten thousand Hakenkreusler’ Your Jew friends will feel a bit nervous, I’m thinking.” Rita pricked her finger with her needle and stared at the little drop of blood. “Hans!” she cried. ‘Is it Christian, all this hatred? Can’t you leave the Jews alone? W hat have they done to you?” “I’m a Catholic,” he said; “as you used to be, old girl. If we don’t get ae better of the Jews, life won’t be worth living in Austria or anywhere else. They’re a_pestilential race. They ought to be stamped out. Any- how, we're going to show them a thing or two to-morrow. They'll see that we have the strength to defend ourselves.” “T pray to God there'll be no violence,” said Rita. “Austria has suffered so much. After all our agony, can’t we have peace among ourselves?” ‘There'll be no disorder on our side,” said Hans. “ But if anybody asks for trouble he’s going to get it all right! ... Let’s see how the armlet looks.” He took off his jacket and slipped into his tunic and displayed the Hakenkreuz. “That’s good,” he said, and then suddenly took his sister’s arm and pulled her toward him and kissed her “Forget that damned Jew of yours!” he said. ‘“ Young Karl is pining to marry you.’ She did not answer, but turned away to hide the tears which sprang into her eyes again, while Hans went out of the room, whistling, with his jacket over his arm... . EPORTS differ as to the cause of the riot which happened on that Sunday when the Hakenkreuzler marched through the streets of Vienna with bands playing and banners flying. There were dense crowds on the sidewalks, but not many Jews among them according to some accounts. It was at the corner of the Kirtnerstrasse that the first encounter took place. The correspondent of the Neue Freie Presse insists that some of the Hakenkreuzler fell on a party of Jews without provocation and set about them with heavy cudgels. Other reporters are equally insistent that this Jewish crowd started the trouble by booing, and laughing, and shouting out insulting remarks. There was a fierce fight which lasted until the police intervened and made numerous arrests on both sides, not before a young Jew had been killed and many wounded. The Hakenkreuzler also had some casualties but none mortal. Among those most seriously injured was Dr. Max Hoffmann, and at the police inquiry which opened amidst great public excitement he was too ill to attend, being in hospital and still unconscious. David Hoffmann, the well- known musician, swore that he was standing with his brother quite quietly on the side- walk when the procession was passing. They were talking to a lady whom they had just met in the crowd. “What lady?” asked the judge. “We shall need her evidence.’ David Hoffmann hesitated and the judge asked his question again. “What was the lady’s name?” “Fraulein Rita von Falckenstein,” said David Hoffmann. “She has been called as a witness, sir. There was a stir among the people in court, hushed quickly as David Hoffmann continued his evidence. He was standing on tiptoe to see the pro- cession over the heads of the crowd when he became aware of a tumult close to where he was standing with his brother. He heard shouting and screams and saw a number of Hakenkreuzler slashing about them with their sticks. Dr. Max Hoffmann pressed forward. | He was very much distressed. Quite suddenly Philip Gibbs? (Continued from page 135) Story the two brothers, and the young lady with them, found themselves alone on the edge of the pavement, the rest of the crowd at that point having fallen back panic-stricken. A young man lay on the roadside bleeding from a scalp wound. It was one of the Hakenkreusler and the brother of the young lady whose name had been given. Dr. Max Hoffmann gave a cry of pity and rushed toward the wounded man to give him medical attention. But as he did so other members of the Hakenkreuz fell upon him savagely and slashed him about the head and body. In attempting to rescue his brother David Hoffmann had also been badly bruised, the Court could see. “We must have the evidence of Fri iulein von Falckenstein,” said the judge. ‘“‘The story we have just heard is totally at variance with that of previous witnesses.” T WAS when Rita von Falckenstein took her place at the witness stand that public excitement became most tense, as though the slim pale figure of this Catholic girl symbolized the conflict between the Jews and Christians. It was clear that the Jewish part of the public in court regarded her as a hostile witness, and there was the sound of hissing as she took her oath. The judge bowed to her courteously. He was a friend of her father and, like General | von Falckenstein, belonged to one of the old | Cc atholic families of Austria. “The previous witness,” said the judge, “has stated that you were standing beside him—between himself and his brother—on the morning of the Hakenkreuz procession.” “Yes,” said Rita, timidly. “Did you know Dr. Max Hoffmann?” asked the judge. For a moment Rita von Falckenstein seemed to hesitate and a’ wave of color swept into her pale face. Then she raised her head slightly and spoke clearly: “He is my lover.” The silence of the court was broken by people whispering excitedly, and then by a loud hissing noise from the crowded galleries. It was not the Jewish element that hissed this time but the members of the Hakenkreuz and their friends. The judge leaned back in his seat and stared at Rita von Falckenstein whose hands clasped the rail of the witness stand. ‘You have a Jew for your lover?” with a kind of stupefaction. “We were going to be married on the Monday following the Hakenkreuz pro- cession,” said Rita simply, and she began to weep a little. The sound of hissing broke There were cries of “Shame!” galle ry. The judge gave a stern warning to the public that he would clear the court if there were any disorder. Then he addressed Rita again. “What you have just told the court may he asked out again. from the affect the value of your evidence somewhat. | I am bound to take note of your pro-Jewish | sympathies, extraordinary as they may seem | from the daughter of General von Falcken- stein.” “T wish to tell the truth,” said Rita, in a | low voice. | She faltered a little as she spoke, though emotion strengthened her voice, after a few words. “The Hakenkreuz made an unprovoked attack . It was just murderous hatred which seemed to make them mad ; When my dear lover ran out into the roadway it was with mercy in his heart, to help my brother who was wounded . . Heisa Jew, yes, but more Christian than the Chris- tians . They battered him with their sticks. They kicked him when he lay unconscious. Oh, it was beast- like! The Hakenkreuz is not a symbol of Christian charity. . . . It was my lover who was Christ-like on that Sunday morning.” HOSE words in that faltering voice, thrilling with emotion and _ nervous exaltation, made a deep sensation in court. For several minutes there was a tumult of cheering, booing, and shouting until, white with anger, the judge cleared the court and suspended the sitting. Rita von Falckenstein had to be protected by the police as she left the precincts of the court. There was an ugly scene, not to the credit of women who were most hysterical and hostile. Rita von Falckenstein went straight from the court to the hospital where her lover lay, and it was noted by the reporters that she was accompanied by her brother whose head was heavily bandaged. The Sister of the ward in which the patient lay put her finger to her lips as Rita and Hans went to the bedside. (Concluded on page 140) | HARPER’S BAZAR is known to countless women al] over the world as the golden key to beauty and youthful appearance. Lines, Crow’s-feet, Coarse Skin, Blackheads, Double Chin and Sagging Contours of face an neck, terrors for almost every woman, were unknown to the incomparable Ninon de Lenclos who, even at the age of 70, was still France’s most admired and courted woman. The methods by which Ninon de Lenclos was aie to maintain youth and beauty indefinitely, unmarred by operations or abusive treatments, were as simple as Nature. 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FEBRUARY 1926 THE GREEN for SILK DRESS Arthur Somers Roche’s Story (Continued from page 85) as far as it might have done before the war. Beefsteak was up around twenty- five cents a pound; milk cost six cents a quart, and eggs, except in early spring, were twenty- five and thirty cents a dozen. But Corry and Carpenter knew a good man when they saw one, and in the summer of 1809 they raised Ted’s pay to thirty-five dollars a week. “T don’t suppose,” said Ted, “that many young chaps my age earn as much as I do.” “They certainly don’t,” said Mary, in- dignant at the mere idea. “And you de- serve even more. That ten dollars extra will help.” “Tt sure will, honey-girl,” said her husband. “You'd better drop down to Jordan Marsh’s to-morrow and pick out some silk, nice shim- mery green silk, and have a dressmaker begin that evening dress.” She threw her arms around his neck. ‘“‘ You darling boy! You never forget, not even the silly things your wife wants. But there'll be no silk dress for me this year.” “Why not?” demanded Ted. “Oh, it wouldn’t be becoming,”’ she evaded. “Becoming? Huh! I’d like to see any- thing that didn’t become you, and when it comes to green silk, there’s no one in the world—” She leaned closer to him. “TI wouldn’t be able to wear an evening dress, boy, for—oh, ever so long.” “What on earth are you talking about, Mary?” he cried. And then, of course, he knew, and kissed her, and fondled her, and they uttered in- coherencies that meant more than studied statements, and then dropped into a long silence. You had to hand it to Ted Mackin as a husband. A trained nurse in the house for three weeks before the baby came, at eighteen dollars a week. And Doc Marsters came twice a day the last week. It must have cost all of a hundred and fifty dollars to bring young Ted Mackin, Junior, into this world. “You're the most generous thing to your wife,” said Mary. “My wife is worth it,”’ said Ted proudly. **So’s your son,” said Mary. Ted, looking at the queer, red infant, could only grin delightedly. “He’s a corker,”’ he finally said. “Lots better than a green silk dress,’’ said Mary. “By Godfrey, I’ll get you that dress yet, Mary,” said Ted. “My dear boy; what does a mother want with evening clothes?” she scoffed. “You're going to have it,” he scowled. ” UT somehow, although infant industries expanded, and dinner pails were full, and Bryan was beaten for the second time, the Mackin expenses always kept a dollar or so ahead of the Mackin income. It wasn’t that Ted wasn’t capable and thrifty, too. Corry and Carpenter swore by him, and he was raised to fifty dollars a week, and in 1904 he had two hundred and seventy dollars in the bank. That was along in May, and they had decided to take the baby to Lanesville for the summer vacation. Lanes- ville was a sleepy little village on Cape Ann, half a dozen miles out of Gloucester, and the Mackins were to pay just twenty dollars a week for a nice big room and three good sqvare meals a day. Not a boarding-house run to rob city people, either, but a place where they liked to see people happy and gave them plenty of eggs and milk. And there was an orchard, and under the apple trees young Ted could play, and the landlord was going to let old Ted use a rowboat, and there’d be lobsters in the pot set out beyond the rocks, and cunners could be caught, and _ tinker mackerel, and there was a strip of sandy beach... . “And not a dressy place, thank goodness,” said Mary. “That organdie will do for any parties. I’ll have a new flounce and some lace at the throat—” Ted grinned at her. “And a green silk dress, wife of mine, for evenings when we go over to Eastern Point and dance.” Her eyes gleamed. ‘STed!’’ Then her face fell. “But we can’t afford it.” Not afford a forty-dollar gown? Why not?” he demanded. _She shook her head. “I couldn’t have a hice one made for forty dollars, now, Ted. Things have gone up in the last six years. It would cost seventy-five.” : If the information was dismaying, Ted Mackin gave no sign. “Suppose it costs ninety-five,” he laughed. “It’s all right with me. You're going to have it.” _ As I’ve said, Ted Mackin was understand- ing. Mary hadn’t mentioned the green silk dress since shortly after little Ted was born, but her husband knew. He was one of those men who always know, and, because they know, are adored. “We need the money so much more for so many other things,’ protested Mary. But her protests were feeble and he waved them aside. Next morning she set joyously forth for Jordan Marsh’s, leaving the little boy with a neighbor. She had just selected the silk she wanted. She planned an Empire dress, the vogue at that time, and with the ruffles and train she required sixteen yards. At two dollars and sixty-five cents a yard—it was an excellent piece of silk—it came to forty-two dollars and forty cents. Trimming, lining, and incidentals would bring the ma- terial cost to about fifty dollars and Mary planned to spend the enormous sum of twenty-five dollars in having the gown made up. "Tteneiont, yes. She had admitted as much to Ted, but if she couldn’t have the dress made by a real dressmaker, she didn’t want it made. And Ted, dear, darling Ted, had told her to spend more if she wanted. Was there ever such a man, such a lover, such a husband? The shears of the salesgirl were poised above the gleaming stuff, and Mary was fumbling, with joyously trembling fingers, in her purse, when Ted touched her on the | arm. knew. “Baby!” she gasped. One glance at his white face and she “Mrs. Major telephoned from Cassidy’s | drug-store. He swallowed something. thought I’d catch you here—” Money spilled from Mary’s palsied hand upon the floor. The salesgirl dropped her scissors and came from behind the counter; she helped retrieve the money and handed it to Ted. “‘I—I’m sorry—to give you all this trouble —I can’t decide—”’ stammered Mary. “Gee, lady, don’t you think nothing about it,” said the salesgirl. ‘‘ You rush home and tend to baby. I know he'll be all right; I got the feeling. And you can come back to- morrow—”’ UT Mary didn’t come back. Mrs. Major’s fault. Bless us and save us, It wasn’t Mrs. Davis, what childer will do when you | take your eyes off them for the teeniest bit of a moment! Here Mrs. Major left the lad for ten seconds, maybe, while she added a little water to the basting on the chicken | and when she came back the child was gasping, choking, and the key to the pantry was gone, | and gone down his little stomach, too, would you believe it? That new machine, the Roentgen rays, which looks right through you like you’d peep through a keyhole if so be you happened to be the peeping kind—well, that’s what the doctors used, and they found the key and had to operate. And it cost, all told, nurse and everything, three hundred dollars. It was a pale, thin little Ted that emerged from the hospital in June. The little flat in Roxbury was no place for a sickly child to stay. There could be no argument about that. Even Mary, who suffered knife- thrusts through the heart at the mere thought of separation from her husband, realized that the doctors, who had ordered little Ted to the mountains, were right. Lanesville and the pleasant fortnight to- gether went by the board. As for the green silk dress, it wasn’t even mentioned. The mother and the child went to a farmhouse in the White Mountains. It cost fourteen dol- lars a week for their board. Ted tried to sublet the little flat, but there was apprehen- sion in the business air. Bryan might be nominated again and Roosevelt beaten. And even after August Belmont had procured the nomination for Judge Parker, there was plenty of uncertainty. One couldn’t rent apartments; business fell off, too. Of course, Ted economized. He ate at a restaurant down-town, where one acquired a meal ticket, worth twenty-one meals, for four dollars and a half a week. But the rent of the little flat was eight dollars a week, car- fare amounted to sixty cents a week, tobacco forty cents a week, and insurance and inci- dentals seven dollars a week. Plus two dollars weekly for the laundry of the pair in the White Mountains and incidental spending money, and forty dollars of the fifty had gone. That left ten dollars to be put in the bank, but Ted, Junior, was going to kindergarten school in the fall... . “We just aren’t able to save a cent, are we?” said Mary, one October evening. Ted grinned. ‘Just to look at you and that rosy-faced boy of ours is worth every- thing in the world, my darling. And—’ he hesitated—‘“‘T’'ll probably get a raise on New Year’s, and that silk dress—” She placed soft hands on his mouth. “Don’t | you ever think of that silk dress again, Ted, dear. Not until we are rich.” Her husband's lips set grimly. it, my dear.” You see, the acquisition of that green silk (Continued on page 138) “You'll get | By Appointment to H. R. H The Prince of Wales IneMayfair The heart of fashionable London, where are gathered the fairest women and most distinguished men of the British Empire. Yardleys 01S English Lavender Soap FOR MORE THAN A CENTURY THE YARDLEY products have been cherished by the leaders of taste and fashion. Yardley’s Old English Lavender Soap is today used by the Court, the aristocracy and by all those who know and can command the best in those little lux- uries of the toilet which mean so much to the refined taste. EXQUISITELY PURE, IT PRESERVES AND BEAU- tifies the complexion and is most luxuriously perfumed with the lovely fragrance of the English Lavender blossom. Box of Three Large Tablets $1.00, or 35c the Tablet THE SERIES ALSO INCLUDES — Lavender Water, $1.00; $1.75; Face Powder, 85c; Compact, $1.00; $1.50; Talc, 50c; 75c; Sachet, 25c; Shampoo, 15c the cartridge ; Bath Salts, $1.50; Bath Dusting Powder, $1.50. Obtainable at all good stores. NEW YORE: 15-19 Madison Square, N. EST. 1770 . YARDLEY LONDON . 137

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Your own physician probably knows the story of this unique Mineral Springs and Health Resort, for it works in close cooperation with him always. Its radio- active mineral springs for kidney and digestive troubles, its baths (including the only natural Nauheim calcium chloride brine bath in America for the treatment of heart and circulatory dis- orders) are nationally famous. And its guests—are different people when they leave! You have tried a dozen recipes already for two weeks — a month — o change and pleasure: this year try a winter vacation whose effects endure. The coupon will bring you complete lie erature: Tue Gren Sprincs, Watkins Gren, New York William E. Lefingwell, President Send me your descriptive booklets. PEAME. ccccccccccceccovescocceseseoes THE GREEN Arthur SILK DRESS Somers Roche’s Story (Continued from page 137) dress had now become something more than the possession of an article of apparel. It had become symbolic—to both of them TRY E enough, Corry and Carpenter did raise Ted’s salary on the first of January, 1905. But Ted had had a touch of fever in Cuba in 1898, and tropical diseases have a nasty habit of recurrence. Ted grew thin and pale all through the winter. Even the inauguration of that idolized other Teddy, on the fourth of March, hardly excited his languid interest. Too much indoors, said Dr. Marsters. If he didn’t change his occupation he’d become a chronic invalid, might even—and Dr. Marsters shook his head. Corry and Carpenter were just as nice as a firm of business men could be. They’d hold his job open for him, gave him a present of a month’s salary, but—they didn’t em- ploy any outdoor men. Ted tried to sell things. But he was a dif- fident chap, better when he dealt with figures than when he dealt with men. He was a corker at planning campaigns that would bring in business, but no use at all when it came to forcing his ideas upon strangers. He sold cigars, stationery, books. And then he got a chance with a a lumber company up in Aroostook County, Maine. He was to be bookkeeper and also to tally logs. That would keep him out of doors. The salary was only thirty dollars a week, but he couldn’t be a chooser. He went to see Corry and Carpenter before he left and both the bosses wished him luck and promised him his old job again, and he felt that maybe he wouldn’t be a failure all his life. He said as much to Mary, and that was the only time in their married life that she was angry with him. “You a failure!” she cried. ‘‘ Because you left your health upon a battle-field, fighting for your country, you dare to call yourself a failure! Don’t you ever dare—ever again—” Maybe her wrathful tears were less in- spired by faith than by hopelessness, but Ted didn’t know that. God bless her, and all the other Marys who supply the nerve we men so often lack. You should have seen young Ted among the lumbermen. Funny that a city child should fit right into country life the way that boy did. And grow! Like a weed! No; more like a sapling whose. slim grace gives promise of sturdiness later on. Big Ted, too, thrived on the outdoor life and country air. That delicacy which had aroused Dr. Marsters’ apprehensions fell away from him as branches fall away from the pines beneath the swishing strokes of the lumberman’s ax. S FOR Mary, she lived for the two males. If, when she was alone and unobserved, a somberness crept into the gray-green eyes, and a hint of tragedy into the full, mobile lips, these vanished at the approach of either husband or son. “This certainly beats the dinky old Charles River, doesn’t it?” exulted big Ted one day. He had pushed their canoe against the bank; young Ted had snaked half a dozen trout from the stream and the odors of coffee and bacon sweetened the air. “The Charles is a city river,” Ted. Mary smiled gently upon them. It was lovely, this woodland scene. They had pad- dled from the mill at Blandon, along the shores of Loon Lake, and were now upon the banks of Rippling River, that stream which brought the logs from the heart of the woods to the sea. “Like it, mother?” said young asked big Ted. He didn’t wait for any answer. He stretched his powerful arms. “Gosh, to think that I might have worked all my life in the city! To think that little Ted would have had to play in Streets, instead of becoming a woodsman.” “Woodsman? I’m a lumberman, a reg’lar lumberjack,”’ boasted young Ted. And he was; he could ride a log like an expert. He could pick out the key-log of a jam with as much certainty as old Denny, the foreman of the drive. He knew, too, where the trout were hun- griest, where the first violet bloomed, how to tell an air-hole in the ice long before you were near it. He was good at his lessons, too; the teacher in the little cross-roads school spoke highly of him to his parents. He promised to be as good-looking as his father, too. The same wavy brown hair, merry blue eyes, strong jaw. . . . Looking at him, Mary suddenly burst into tears. Her husband’s arm was around her in- stantly. “‘My blessed—my darling,” he gaspe d The boy stared at her, bewildered. Mum, what’s the matter?’ There never was anything in all history more gallant than Mary’s recovery from her tears. Even her gray-green eyes twinkled as she looked at her husband “Say, “T guess,” she said, “that I’m just so happy that—that I’m silly.”” She smiled tenderly at the boy. ‘“‘When girls cry, Ted, it’s often because they’re pleased.” The boy stared at her; he looked at his father. ‘Do you know what?” he asked. They look expectantly at him. “When I grow up,” he declared, “I’m going to make a lot of money and give it to you, Mum.” The gift of the Mackins—to understand. Big Ted flushed painfully. He, too, under- stood. Mary’s gallantry was without avail. “T’m all well again, Mary,” he said. “Maybe Corry and Carpenter would take me back, even though it’s years since I worked for them— “Ww hy, what on earth’s the matter with you both?” she cried. EITHER of them answered; the boiling- over coffee demanded young Ted’s attention, and the fire required the instant ministrations of old Ted. The meal pro- ceeded, with carefully forced gaiety. That night the husband spoke, in the dark- ness, to his wife. . Mary, life hasn’t given you much. You cook and keep house for the boy and me and— that’s all. No pretty clothes, no theaters, no women of your own class—” She put her palm upon his lips; with agony he realized that the flesh was not as soft as it had been in the past; labor had roughened the palm, and the knuckles, he knew, were reddened. “Have I ever complained, Ted?” she asked. “You? You’re the gamest thing that ever breathed,” he cried. ‘You took me for bet- ter or for worse, and though it’s always been the worse you’ve never whined. And I—I’m stupid. Because this rough life sort of agrees with me—we’re going back to the city, Mary. I'll write Corry and Carpenter in the morn- ing. . . . Time I did some thinking about you, instead of about myself. The boy’ll be better off, too. This is an era of cities, and a man must compete in the cities, unless he wants to let the race proceed with- out him. Ted must go back there. And— and Mary, you'll have that green silk dress.” “Nonsense, Ted,” she chided him. “You must think I’m a child. I have you—and little Ted- But he felt her form quiver and heard her breath exhale in a strangled sob. His hand— powerful again—clenched and crushed the bed-clothes into a tiny ball. N& "XT morning, at breakfast, he studied her. Not with the eyes of love, with which he had always looked at her, but with slanting appraisal. She was still beautiful, yes. Her somber eyes, the tragic mouth, the marvelous complexion and the glorious hair; the figure, still alluring despite its matronliness. But, oh, God, not a happy face! Tragedy had marked it. The am- bitions so gayly held in youth, and so bravely relinquished, had eaten upon that gentle countenance. And he knew why! Not because she had been denied riches and the life that may ac- company them. But because her husband had been denied them, and her boy was to be given no brilliant start in life. It was for these two males of hers that she had suf- fered. He knew that. Even though he were content with the rough woods life, she wanted him to have something better. She wanted to look at him, not alone with love shining from her eyes but with pride in his achieve- ment. She would not love him more if he achieved more, but her pride, the gracious pride of the woman in her man, would be sated. It’s a hard thing to leave one occupation and go back to another, to uproot habits that have become fixed and learn new tricks. But Ted Mackin did it. Corry and Carpenter answered his letter and told him that they were glad to learn of his recovery of health, and would employ him again. They would start him in at fifty dollars a week, the same salary he’d received when he left, but they hinted that his pay would be increased soon. Rents had gone up in 1912. At first, the Mackins boarded, until Ted had managed to save enough to make first payments on some sticks of furniture, and then they moved into a flat in Brookline, a tiny three-room affair that cost fifty dollars a month. Ted Junior went to High School the fol- lowing year and did exceptionally well in his studies. Corry and Carpenter increased big Ted’s salary to seventy-five dollars a week in the summer of 1913. He came home two hours ahead of time and picked his wife from the floor, almost waved her in the air, as he recounted the glorious news. When he put her down she was breathless, and a trifle pale. “We're on our way to fortune at last, Mary,” said Ted. “I’ve made good, my (Continued on page 139) HARPER’S BAZAR Clean Limbed Beauty With Neet, the dainty hair removing cream, one may now wear even the sheerest of stockings without a single misgiving—with this dainty cream you simply rinse the of- fending hair away. Demand Neet—accept no substitute. No other method of hair re- moval is so rapid and con- venient, so thorough and satisfactory. 35,000 Drug, Department and Hosiery Storessell Neet. Getaliberal sized, soc tube of Neet at your favorite store today. Hannibal Phar. Co., St. Louis, Mo. Beauty 7 in Healthy EYES It’s not so much the size or coloroftheEYESthatmakes them beautiful. Rather, it’s theglowwhichradiatesfrom them. 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f FEBRUARY 1926 or Advance Spring FASHIONS Sizes for Stout Women Spring’s youthful note and the chic of Paris in new slenderizing apparel—sizes 38 to 56. An authoritative showing of the new things for Spring and Southern wear FROCKS and SPORTSWEAR COATS and MILLINERY fane $ryant 26 W. 30th St., 21 W. 38th St., New York Hanover Place, nr. Fulton St., B’klyn SHICAGO DETROIT ST. LOUIS PHILADELPHIA PARIS ‘A model that combines the smart- ness of modern dressmaking with the poetry of Near East art needlework. Rich with multi- colored cross-stitch embroidery. There is just enough smocking beneath shoulders and pockets to afford an equally smooth fit for slim and full figures. In light shades makes a distinctive after- noon or party frock: in dark shades, a charming and practical school dress. May be ordered also with collar. Available in all colors and sizes. Silk, $45. Jersey, $40 Distinctive selection of peasant dresses. Illustrated Catalogue H and measurement blank on request. Peasant Art Importing Co., Inc. 677 Lexington Ave., New York Norma ie =| THE GREEN Arthur Somers Roche’s SILK DRESS Story , (Continued from page 138) health is all right. silk dress, girl.” She smiled wanly. a maid—a woman to do the heavy work— “You'll get the maid to-morrow,” he said, “and the dress—well, in a few weeks you'll have that.” “You mustn’t be silly,’’ she chided him. “Because I wanted a dress fifteen years ago doesn’t mean that I want it now. “Listen,” he said. “I won’t feel that I’ve made good as a lover, a husband, or as a man, until you have that dress. You're going to get it But Doc Marsters, dining with them one night shortly after the new maid had been installed, asked Mary several questions. Later, he shooed the two Teds out of the living- room and made an examination of Mary. She had, the kindly old physician gently informed the husband, an incipient cancer. Something about her languid air, so strange in the usually vital Mary, had aroused his suspicions. It meant, of course, constant care, and no hard work. The woman to do the heavy work became a regular servant, and her wages amounted to the staggering sum of twelve dollars a week. She meant an extra one to feed, too. . . . Along in July, 1914, Mary was operated on. She came through splendidly, but, even though Ted was receiving one hundred and twenty-five dollars a week, the hospital bills were appalling, and the Mackins could save nothing. Ted slipped into the department store the day before Mary returned from the hospital and priced a ready-made green silk evening gown. It cost $160, and he was compelled to shake his head. It couldn’t be afforded. Young Ted was growing up now. He needed orndnne better clothes, more of them The war knocked the props right from under business. Corry and Carpenter had to reduce salaries all along the line, and 1914 was a bitter year for the Mackins. Then came 1915, and the discovery that Europe must buy from us. . . . All business boomed; the Mackin salary went to eight thousand ayear. But rent went toa hundred a month; an ordinary ready-made suit of clothes cost sixty dollars; shoes went from five to ten and higher; food almost doubled in cost. Better pick out that green “Ted, I’d rather have ” N THE evening of that April day in 1917 when we went into the war, Ted Mackin came home with ten dollars and some silver in his pocket, and bills for four hundred dollars beside the money. Life was just a hard Marathon run, and one was always in the ruck. A stalwart youth, nearly six feet high, in the uniform of a Marine, opened the front door at his ring. “T didn’t wait a minute, dad,” said young Ted. “You volunteered in ’98 on the day war was declared. I knew it was coming to-day, so I enlisted this morning. They put me into uniform, and said I could spend to- night at home.” “Does your mother—” The boy smiled. ‘“She’s for it, dad.” So she was. They stayed up half the night, and old Ted talked about the Cuban cam- aign . Perhaps jt was the shock of her son’s de- parture, though Dr. Marsters didn’t think so. The doctor said it was just the after cffects of the operation. Anyway, Mary steadily sank. It was necessary to take a larger apartment and engage a trained nurse, and, though big Ted’s salary, by 19109, when young Ted was demobilized, was ten thousand a year, the terrific increase in living expenses prevented any saving. Young Ted put away his uniform. He shook his head when his father suggested college. “Couldn’t do it, dad. I’ve been a man, in a man’s war. No more school.” He had pluck all right, too. Beyond a week at home and a hundred dollars, he wouldn’t take a cent from his parents. He had a buddy who operated a ranch in Wy- oming. He’d been promised a job, and he’d take it while he thought things over. “And don’t forget, Mum,” he said, just before he departed for the West, “I’m going to be rich and give it all to you.” She pressed her husband’s hand after the boy had gone. “As if, my dear, I wanted money when I have you—and him.” “Well,” he grinned, “we aren’t doing so badly, Mary. I’ve been offered a chance to buy stock in the company, too. A few years of putting a little bit aside and we'll be jinde- pendent for life. They’re going to raise my pay again, and I thought 1 ‘d put the extra money into the firm.’ ‘A wonderful idea, Ted,” she concurred. Every week, for the next five years, Ted Mackin put back into the business a propor- tion of his salary, toward the purchase of stock—and independence. Their living ex- penses increased steadily; the nurse that had come for thirty dollars received forty now. Still they managed to live comfortably. But the green silk dress had been abandoned. “After we've paid for the stock, Mary,” said Ted frequently, “we can have any- thing.” “Darling,” she would assure him, want anything more than I have.” Regularly, once a month, they heard from their son. He left the Wyoming ranch after six months and drifted down into Mexico. Then he came back into Oklahoma and worked in the oil-fields. Then he went to South America. He seemed to be a drifter. The war, they sadly told each other, had made youth rest- less. Sooner or later, he’d find himself. Then he returned to the States and settled in Florida. Florida was on the verge of a big boom, he wrote them. The boom came. He was in real estate. He was doing quite well; maybe he’d be able to invite them down “T don’t to visit him in the winter of 1926. They’d like it down there. WO things happened one fall day. Young Ted Mackin got off a train at the South Station, in Boston, and Corry and Carpenter failed. The afternoon paper was delivered at the Mackin home at four. Screaming headlines told that Corry and Carpenter, commission merchants, had gone into in- voluntary bankruptcy. The firm hadn’t managed to retrench since war days had ceased and deflation set in. The crash was terrific. Fifty years old and penniless, out of a job, his savings gone, Ted Mackin rode home to his wife. But Dr. Marsters had been there before him, and met the husband at the door. “The evening paper—Mary saw it,” said the doctor. “She fainted and the nurse sent for me. She’s in bed and—she’s going to stay there, Ted, though it breaks my heart to tell you so. Bless her, not a thought of her- self. But the shock of knowing that your work and saving had come to nothing—”’ “You mean,” said the white-lipped Ted, “that she’s going to—to—die?” Marsters nodded soberly. ‘‘Nothing can save her; the heart—it’s a matter of days. But it’s a matter of minutes if she exerts herself at all. Go in to her, old boy.” Ted went in. She lay, white, upon the bed. But the somber eyes smiled at him. “Ted, dear heart, when I think of how you slaved—” “And gave you nothing,” he moaned. “You gave me love,” she retorted, “and tender care and devotion—oh, my man, be brave when I am gone. “You mustn’t talk—” bed and frankly wept. He knelt by the NTO the bedroom burst a six-footer; one glance told you that his clothing had been made by New York’s most expensive tailor. The silk scarf, the fit of the collar, the wrist- watch, all spoke of money. “Greetings, folks,’ said Ted Junior. “I’ve seen the newspapers, so you don’t have to tell me anything. But cheerup. The young Napoleon of the East Coast of Florida, the lad who ran a shoe-string into eight hundred thousand dollars, the chief stockholder in the Mackin Development Company, is in your presence. In his pocket are bills and cashier’s checks for fifty thousand dollars. Just south of Palm Beach is a Spanish house, with a patio and orange trees and everything. Didn’t want to write you; wanted to surprise you. Folks, your wandering boy has come home and he’s taking you South to-morrow. To hell with Corry and Carpenter!” “Ted,” they gasped. He shook hands with his father and kissed his mother. ‘Got a present for you, Mum. Stopped over in New York yesterday and went to Lengels’. Selected this dress. Cost four hundred and twenty-five bucks. Green silk—” He swept a box upon the bed, and began tearing the strings. But his mother’s frail hand pushed his fingers away. “J want to open it.” Her somber eyes gleamed with rapture and her voice trembled. Slowly, painfully, she untied the knots, lifted the cardboard cover, pushed back the tissue-paper, and cried in ecstasy as the dream of a lifetime came true. Her eyes closed, and when she spoke it was very distinctly. “Leave the room, both of you. I’m going to put it on.” “But Marsters says you mustn’t move,” protested big Ted. “T’m—going—to—put—it—on,” she de- clared. Color rushed into her pale cheeks. Mackin summoned the nurse, who shook her head. “If you deny her, Mr. Mackin, it might be dangerous—she’ s excited—” ‘All of you—leave the room,” said the quiet voice. “I w ant—I want my dress— all to myself. Please.” (Concluded on page 140) 139 Lesquendieu * (PRONOUNCED LES-CON-DUR) ipstich TUSSY MAKES BEAUTIFUL LIPS STILL MORE ADORABLE UPID’S bows, full generous lips, fine sensitive lips, de- lightful, pouty moués. All are made more beautiful, more fragrant with this su- perior lipstick that now comes direct from France to enhance the charms of les femmes Amerigaines, Lipstick Tussy is on Everyone's Lips Look around you the next time you are in a really smart dressing room. Note the pre- ponderance of chic women using Tussy. You will recog- nize it readily by its distinc- tive, chubby galalith case. About the Purity of Lipstick Tussy It has a fine, smooth base that will soothe and soften the lips, as well as heighten their individual beauty. 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Of course I am talking to mothers who follow up the problems of their children, not to those who detach themselves from them the moment they are grown, who, so to say, wash their hands of them, which I am told is often in these modern times a tacit under- standing between parents and children. All this I have turned over in my mind and I have come to the conclusion that most decidedly a mother should help her children marry. But how can she help? How? Surely a mother can help her daughter see the right sort of people. She cannot, of course, prevent her meeting occasionally the wrong sort. But if she has been in close touch with her child, has won and kept that child’s sympathy and confidence, she can do much to keep her daughter from too frequent meetings with the undesirable man. Not by threats and scoldings, but by brief and tactful talks. I say brief because youth is impatient of lectures. I say tactful because the right word, the illuminating remark that arrests without boring, goes further to in- fluence a girl or boy than long, pretentious discourses. “So-and-So is obviously insincere,” carries more weight than, “My darling, mother wants to have a nice long talk with you about So-and-So.” A casual, “Young Blank has no humor; how tiresome he will be to his wife!” sets youth a-thinking better than a solemn effort to prove your point at length. And the other way about: Suppose there is a very desirable marriage possible, can the mother not see to it that the two young people see much of each other? It means planning this and that entertain- ment, this and that journey perhaps. But is it not worth the effort? It was always the way of the young to fall in love with those they are much with. And, looking around me, I have not found it THE GREEN has changed much in that way since “my time!” It is a mother’s duty, rather than her right, to study the situation carefully, tolerantly, and intelligently and think out ways of discouraging bad matches—and making good ones. This often means real effort on the mother’s part, for if you take away a wanted thing, you must provide something else in its place, travel, entertainment, a new interest. You may have your own work, your own interests to absorb you. That is where so much detachment exists these days twixt mother and child. Mothers have so many interests of their own. They should have. But there are times when the welfare of the child must come first. Each child has to be treated according to character. Of course there are cases where even a girl of seventeen loves once and forever, and where a boy who would seem too young to know the sort of wife he wants nevertheless does know and proves his choice wise by marrying and remaining faithful and devoted throughout life. But these cases are rare, as rare as white blackbirds. The human heart is not such a perfect and dependable piece of mechanism as that! Usually “out of sight, out of mind” happens oftener than “‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.” The great difficulty, both for the daughter and for the mother with the experienced eye, is to know true love from its many and excellent imita- tions. . . . I am strongly for love matches, although the contrary has often been said of me. I contend, however, that love is not love when it enthralls only the senses. There must be passion but there must also be _ reason. Passionate love is the wine of life. Friend- ship, companionableness, affection, respect are life’s bread. There is a vast difference between a sincere and loving interest, and a selfish, calculating ambition. Proper ambition is right and it is a mother’s part to help and foster it. Yet the “Mother-in-Law of the Balkans” believes above everything in the power of love and the right to happiness. SILK DRESS Arthur Somers Roche’s Story (Concluded from page 130) They left her. Slowly she rose from the bed. Slowly she put on the green silk dress. From the box she took gold slippers and yellow stockings. She arranged her hair, and that it was flecked with gray was unnoticed by her. And then she sat down upon a chair before a mirror. She touched her lips with rouge, powdered the still lovely throat, and put a tiny black patch just above the dimple on her left shoulder. The dress fitted. It didn’t need a single alteration. Lovingly she stroked the smooth material, noted how the electric light made it shimmer, colored faintly as she saw how low it was in front and back. She rose and courtesied to her reflection in the mirror. A man was asking her to dance; it was that THE good-looking young Ted Mackin who’d been with Roosevelt in Cuba. Of course she’d waltz with him. How divinely he danced; she hoped, blushing, that he hadn’t noticed how her heart beat when he pressed her to him. She hoped she wasn’t vain to think that they were a good-looking couple as they returned to her chair. How strong he was; how easily he swung the chair around for her to sink into it. Now she was sitting down, looking up at him. . . . Her lips parted in a ravishing smile. . . . She was smiling when, after his knocks upon the door had brought no response from lips forever silent, Mackin entered the room. Oh, yes, the place to die is on the mountain top. SIGN OF THE CROOKED CROSS Sir Philip Gibbs’ Story (Concluded from page 136) “He is getting back to consciousness,” she said. ‘ Before the end comes.” Dr. Max Hoffman moaned slightly as Rita leaned over him. His head was turned side- ways showing his finely cut profile as she had seen it first under a street lamp. The back of his head was wrapped round in linen and cotton wool. It was where a heavy cudgel had made a deep and almost mortal wound. Suddenly he turned his head and opened his eyes and saw Rita there. For a moment he may have thought that he was dreaming for he made no sign. But presently a smile lighted up his eyes, and he tried to say some- thing. Rita bent lower and said: “Oh, my dear, my dear!” He whispered to her and she heard his words: “Tell them I forgive. . . .” Before he died he said: ‘‘ Auf Wiedersehen,” as when he had stood in the wet darkness of Vienna nights on her father’s doorstep across which he could not pass because he did not belong to her faith or caste. Rita von Falckenstein in a Catholic convent prays to Christ for her Jewish lover, and for charity in a world of hatred—where men still kill each other for ideals of world peace, for wars to end war, for the advance- ment of human brotherhood, for love of God who made them all!

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for FEBRUARY 1926 PARIS DISPLAYS THE BASIC FABRIC OF THE MODE Marjorie Howard’s Article (Concluded from page 83) Queen Victoria’s sway, with all the drawing- room furniture covered in red tartan. Picture , the next time you have to live for a day os so with a red plush hotel suite; it will reconcile you to much that seems unbearable in interior desecration. The new lamés ought to have a whole article to themselves. Not only are they lovelier than ever, but there are more of them for the time of year. This indicates the continuance of the gorgeous wraps which are so great a feature of the present evening mode. There is a picture of Coudurier’s loveliest lamé on page seventy-five, a faint old-rose satin with a large flower design in pale blue and gold on gold and silver chevrons. Another shows a small dot design of rubies and gold spangles scattered over a black ground. The large leaves, which are a sort of specialty of this house, are continued in iridescent color combinations. Bianchini is weaving his lamés one hundred and thirty centimeters wide this year, in accordance with the feeling for greater width in classic fabrics. Many have small, close designs, others are striped and particularly adapted to the mode of evening “‘sports” gowns. Ducharne’s sum- mer lamés are light in weight, and many of them are repeated on a Georgette foundation. One of their best designs shows the whole “stately firmament” of stars and suns. LL these lovely things will be represented in the February collections. You have no idea how it adds to the excitement of the game to be able to spot the new designs and weaves as the mannequins file past. Whether you come to Paris to buy the new models or wait till they are available at your favorite im- porter’s, your new spring wardrobe will be composed of these materials; and therein lies their significance just now. Materials are going to assume greater importance than ever this spring. The authority quoted above gives it as his opinion that the principal interest of the spring mode will lie in the adaptation of materials to unexpected uses—a sort of puss- in-the-corner between crépes, chiffons, and laces. I have illustrated this idea for you on page seventy-eight, in which you see Chantal’s newest sports ensemble, a cape and frock, in two shades of yellow chiffon, a material which she was the first to use for such purposes, and of which she will show many examples in the fine new salons she is inaugurating with the February collection. When chiffon is used for its original purpose of dance frocks, it continues to be touched with gold or silver, sometimes with embroidery, sometimes with gilded or silvered leather. There is an example from Worth on page seventy-six; and at the reception to the Press with which Drecoll opened their new tea-rooms, several of the prettiest models shown were in chiffon, frosted on the edges with silver. You may see what this smartest of tea-places looks like in Drian’s frontispiece. On the same page as Chantal’s chiffon sports ensemble is a dance frock in net, or tulle, as the French call it, with huge tulle roses on the skirt, an idea of the Grande Duchesse Marie of Russia, who conducts a flourishing embroidery atelier under the name of Kitmir. Tulle, you know, is making an effort to wrest the palm from chiffon as a dance frock material. Newer than all is the use of lace for a sports frock, shown by Mary Nowitzky on page seventy-eight. She makes nothing but sports things and pajamas, but I think that the idea of a jumper and plaited skirt of lace has unusual possibilities. All the models on this page, together with the Lanvin black tulle and taffeta, and the Worth black chiffon, are just what will be worn here on the Riviera; while on pages fifty and fifty-one Boutet de Monvel shows you some of the newest things to wear on the trip. S TO hats to accompany these Southern models, it is a little too soon to say exactly what they will be. At the moment there are only two types of hat in Paris, the rather high crown with odd folds and crumples i in it, in the style of “gigolo,” and some version of the béret. The earliest spring hats will continue on these lines, using light-weight felts and last year’s knitted or crocheted Straws, or some light flexible exotic on the order of panama for the first type, and any fabric that seems good to the milliners for the second. I have had some of them drawn on Pages eighty and eighty-one, with the very newest Paris blouses, each of which becomes a frock by the addition of a plaited, gathered, or paneled skirt of the same material. One of the hats has a flat brim, you see; later, when a Strong sun demands it, we may find these flat brims instead of the slightly turned down ones that shaded our eyes from the glare last summer. It is very amusing to watch the making of one of the fabric bérets at Reboux’s. They begin with a huge mushroom of canvas, fitted carefully to your head. You will be sure, at first, that the head size is much too small, for the béret must fit so tightly round the face that it is nearly impossible to ease it down over your head. But you must persist, because it has to be worn that way. At your next fitting, you will find the canvas covered with the chosen fabric (velvet at the moment), or else converted into felt. This is coaxed down on your head, and then, with a brusque movement of both hands, the essayeuse abruptly breaks it into the folds desired. These run, at present, across the head from side to side and some of the bérets are remi- niscent of a Spanish comb, for they stand up in the back in a high roll which may even be wired. The felt ones are cut into odd curved sections and picturesquely bent into place. A few of them are furnished with a tiny veil, just across the eyes, and as it is a long time since I saw a veil at Reboux’s, this may be the beginning of a revival. In the salon, you will see a few hats with huge aigrettes swishing about at the side, but they are seldom ordered. Occasionally I see a pretty woman try one on, and sigh rather wistfully at the flattering caress of the soft blackness against her cheek. Aigrettes, however, seem to belong to a vanished age of formality. As for Southern shoes and stockings, the newest footgear is in white lizard, and very smart it is, worn with a sheer stocking of palest coffee color—never white. This stocking will have, of course, the openwork clock which no French hose is ever without. With other footgear the stocking will be of a slightly stronger tone. Stockings in Paris at the moment are less faintly beige for daytime wear, but that is partly on account of the sloppy streets of the time of year. Even crossing a pavement, your delicate fawn color may be splashed by a passing wheel and ruined for the day, and Paris mud has a trying way of resisting all cleansing agents. E nglish women, invading the boulevards, come provided with Russian boots, and very com- fortable they look. Mme. Paul Poiret was the first, I believe, to wear them; but Lady Duff Gordon adopted them soon afterwards and made them characteristically her own. I have never thought them becoming, but they are certainly practical for wet weather. Southern sports shoes in France will continue to be made in a combination of white buck- skin and tan leather, either oxfords or instep- strap models, with the moderate Cuban heel which Frenchwomen wear with sports clothes. Gloves will still be of the plain pull-on an- telope variety, in beige, or white for the South. Nothing has so far supplanted them in smartness. F THERE is little that is novel in all this, there is at least one accessory which is show- ing extraordinary vitality of invention, and that is jewelry. The combination of colors is as strange and unexpected as the combina- tion of materials. Ivory, turquoise, mother- of-pearl, jade,transparent and opaque enamels, the blackness of onyx and the whiteness of crystal—all these are mingled with the precious stones which we have been used to see alone. The stones themselves are carved and engraved; Cartier has a necklace of carved emerald beads, alternated with little cylinders of onyx and triple rows of diamonds. I saw a bracelet the other day made of squares of pearls, set close like a pavement, alter- nated with squares of carved .apis-lazuli, each with a raised magnolia of shaped moonstones, apparently floating on the blue. A large brooch of flat diamonds showed delicately enameled fawns springing across the blazing white background, under an inlaid emerald tree. A second bracelet of diamonds, with here and there an emerald and here and there a sapphire, had a border of green and blue enzmel, like the Chinese wave pattern at the hem of a mandarin robe. The familiar big circles of onyx with diamond clasps at the sides are now frequently changed to rings of diamonds with a large flower, perhaps a rose, in rubies and matching enamel set at each side, its petals raised in high relief. The intricate beauty of this modern workman- ship equals any classic example of the gold- smith’s art, and is a direct result of the lavish exhibits of jewelry at the Paris exhibition. The vogue of the simple stone, unless it be a mammoth diamond in a ring, seems to be over for the present, and settings have assumed all the importance they enjoyed under the Second Empire, and more. CeE-xsO 141 Women and Gentle Men. We do not issue a Style Brochure,— but we are always glad to serve our friends at a distance. An old shoe for size is all we need, or when you are once fitted with any of our styles—we can always supply your wants in future by mail. 20 EAST 49r7n STREET fap NEW YORK FOR MANY YEARS AT §°o5 KOHN’S SHOE SHOP. —snug beel, “int arch. Allleathersand combinations. High or low heels—pointed and full shaped toes. New York’s Smartest Shoes Alfred A. Kohn—the Shoe Shop of New York’s Aristocracy for a generation. Always a step ahead of Fashion—yet never creating bizarre effects simply for sake of innovation. Quality is our watchword— Style is our Guidon—in Shoes for Gentle AVENUE allot Soeurs PERFUMES Now presented lo America exclusively by SAKS-FIFTH AVENUE 5.25 to 45.00 SAKS FIFTH AVENUE Specialists in Apparel and Accessories FORTT-NINTH TO FIFTICTH STREET, NEW YORK

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EBRUARY opening of the and camp season. comes with it the True, the lakes are still skating ponds, but even while the chill wind blows, boys and girls and parents too are looking beyond the ice and snow to next summer’s warmth and freedom—in other words, to Camping. To find the best camp for summer is to begin now by investigating many. With our knowledge of all camps, we will be glad to help you find the best camp for you. Use this coupon for your request and we will send you information and catalogs. Mr. Kenneth N. Chambers, Director HARPER’S BAZAR CAMP BUREAU 119 West 140th Street, New York I wish to secure information about a summer camp. Desired location..... Approximate price. . RLS SUR ae | | ON THE Robert Hichens’ HARPER’S BAZAR SCREEN Novel (Continued from page 99) it up. Something in the night was affecting him strangely, horribly. Sadness was flowing over him like an icy wave. The effort he had just made had evidently caused an immediate and sharp reaction. Suddenly he felt abomi- nably miserable and as if he couldn’t find in himself the power to hide his misery. “But we must do something. And what is there to do in Fontainebleau?” “Precious little, I should think.” “But you are living there. You must know. What do you do at night?” “Nothing,” said Jack. “Same as you do in Barbizon.” “How d’you know what I do in Barbizon at night?” retorted Leri, looking suddenly as sly as a street boy. “Have I told you? Eh?” He leaned a little nearer to Jack. “T can keep my secrets as well as an Englishman.” To this Jack said nothing at all. He longed to edge away from his companion. But there was no room to do that. He could only turn away his head and stare into the Forest. If he could stop that trotting horse, jump out, and lose himself among the trees! An overpowering desire to be quite alone, to be able to think, to get rid of his mental con- fusion and have things clear in his mind came to him. His body stiffened with it and he simply hated the nearness of Leri. “T say I can keep my secrets, my old boy! ’ Jack compelled ” “Keep them by all means, himself to say. After a short silence Leri said, where we might go.” He waited, but Jack said nothing. ““We might go to the Asile Vert.” Jack moved abruptly. “Too late!” he said. “Too late! But you English are incredible! Does every one put on his night cap at ten in England? Is no one ever out after dark? Mon Dieu—”’ “T hardly know Krahmer.” “Why, I met you there!” “That was the first time.” “But Krahmer is not a virgin who pulls all the blinds and locks the door when the sun goes down. Do you suppose ‘T happen to know that Krahmer works at night.” “Who told you that?” “He told me himself.” Leri let out a low laugh. “What are you laughing about?” “But really, my old boy, you are so inno- cent at times. Or you pretend to be. Which is it?’ “Why is it innocent to suppose that when Krahmer tells me he works at night it may h appen to be true?’ “Oh, I do not say he never works at night. But when a man wishes to remain undisturbed he always brings forward the excuse that he is busy with work. I often have to paint at night, I assure you. And he laughed again. “Well, even if Krahmer doesn’t work and he wishes to be left alone, what right have we to disturb him?” “For once it would not matter. Shall we go?” “T’ll tell you IS dark eyes were cunning now and there was cunning in the sound of his voice. Jack hesitated before he replied. He was thinking of his question at Barbizon and of the strange answer of Leri. Leri had told him that if he wanted to know why Antoinette Durier was dangerous, he ought to inquire at the Asile Vert. That meant that Krahmer could tell him. ““Let us go—eh? Krahmer has good wine in his cellar. He is ready to sit up all night. I know him. I have been with him in Paris. He is free from the dear old prejudices of Engl: and. His is an ema ancipated spirit. ‘And I wonder just what that is,”’ said Jack. And he really was wondering. There was something in these people whom he had met in the Forest, in Leri, Peranza, the Russians, Krahmer, and in Antoinette—especially in her—which had made him feel at times as if they were all unbound, while he was bound. Yet, by what was he bound? Why was not he as free as they all seemed to be? “T will tell you, my old boy. himself openly in the sight of all.” “Well? And the man who hasn’t an emanci- pated spirit, as you call it—what is he?’ ‘Instead of being himself he is what all the other stupid, unemancipated people expect him to be. He may want to go naked. But they expect him to wear a tight collar, a black coat, and nice trousers with pretty lines down the middle, and he wears them, even if he is melting in the heat. Cocher!” *M’ sieu? The coachman turned his huge bullet head and stared with his round dark eyes. “Next turning to the right. Do not go into the town. Stop at the Asile Vert . Monsieur Krahmer’s house.” “* Bien, M’sieu.” Krahmer is “Tf he is making music, we will let him alone. But if he is not—ah!” And he gently shoved Jack in the side while his mischievous eyes twinkled. “ Anyhow, we will not go till we have seen him. That I swear. “He may not be back from Paris. He went there to-day. “Oh, I think he will be back.” The carriage turned to the right, and they passed along the road at the edge of the Forest till they saw a light shining in the distance. “‘Cocher!” “ M’sieu?” “Stop here.” _ The coachman pulled up his horse with a “We will get out and see for ourselves,” said Leri. “‘We will give Krahmer a little surprise. Come on!” Jack got out of the carriage mechanically. He had not assented to this nocturnal visit. But he had not the will to refuse to make i+ With his quite definite refusal to fall in with the mad Paris project his power of resistance to Leri’s desires seemed for the moment exhausted. “You can wait for us, cocher.” “But how long is M’sieu going to be?” “God knows.” “But it is getting very late, M’sieu, and I have to be up early.’ “T’ll pay him,” said Jack. “‘ We are close to Fontainebleau. At the hotel I can ring up a taxi to take you back.” “Oh, as to that I am not going back for hours. I haven’ t come all this way just for the drive.’ “Here you are! Good- night.’ ‘Good night, M’sieu. HE man turned his horse which trotted briskly away, no doubt eager to reach his stable. “And now let us see!”’ said Leri. Again the intensely mischievous look had come into his eyes. This time it came to Jack as a warning. With the departure of the carriage he felt suddenly less confused. It seemed to have carried away some of his odd vagueness with it. And as the sound of the trotting hoofs and the wheels died away, leaving the silence of the summer night un- tarnished, he turned to Leri, and in his most definitely English manner said, ‘Look here, Leri, what are you up to?” Without being aware of it he had spoken in English. Till now he had only talked French with Leri. “Eh?” said Leri. “What are you up to? W hat i is the joke?” ““Why you speak English?” said Leri care- ully. “Oh—did I?” Jack repeated his question in French. “‘There isn’t any joke.” “What do you expect to find going on at the Asile Vert?” said Jack, obstinately. “Nothing. Surely, as you say, we shall find Krahmer composing beautiful music. “Do you expect to find any one with him?” said Jack. And he laid a hand on his companion’s arm. Leri shook his uncovered head. ““Who would be with him at such an hour? Krahmer, my old boy, is no longer married, and a respectable gentleman does not—” “Don’t be a fool! Do you expect to find—?’ Jack stopped. and went on, “Do you expect to find Mlle. Durier with m?” “Do you?” asked Leri, smiling. “T! Certainly not. I have no reason to—” “Ah—ah? You delightful Englishman! It is the high collar, the black coat, the trousers with the pretty lines down the front! Mon Dieu! Throw them off, my old boy! Undress! Go naked for once! Look! It is night. No one will see you. No one will know but I!” Jack felt the blood rush to his head. He was angry, but partly because there was the sting of truth in Leri’s remark. In his reserve he felt at a great disadvantage with his horribly unreserved companion. And though he was conscious of wearing the high collar, black coat, and creased trousers, he knew that Leri saw through him. “You know quite well that you want to go to the Asile Vert far more than I do,” con- tinued Leri. “And yet you stand there pretending. Really it is not worth while. But you English pull down the blinds when all the doors of the house are wide open. “T don’t want to go to the Asile Vert,” said Jack, savagely. “And what’s more, I am not going there!” Then he cleared his throat AND he turned abruptly and began to walk rapidly away in the direction of Fontainebleau. As he walked, he was listening intently. He was not sure what he (Continued on page 143)

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FEBRUARY ON THE Robert 1926 for Hichens’ SCREEN Novel (Continued from page 142) expected, whether to hear the sound of feet hastening after him, or a shouting voice bidding him come back, or some ironical crv of adieu. But something he certainly did expect to hear. He could not believe that in Leri’s present mood he would just let him go without any attempt to keep him, or at the least without some blatant comment on his fight. But presently he realized that he had misjudged Leri. For nothing happened. He heard no cry, no feet running after him. Leri had just let him go. When he knew that, Jack felt oddly humiliated, like a man who has done an absurd thing in which another, knowing it for absurd, has acquiesced. But Leri had been intolerable. He had not meant to be so, but the fact was that he and Jack didn’t suit one another. They belonged to different breeds and could not lie snug in the same kennel. Impossible! They had _ different standpoints, different views on life and conduct, different expectations, and—my God—different desires. How different their desires were! Jack stood still in the road. He was feverishly hot and his heart was thumping. He pulled off his hat. He longed to feel a cool breeze go through his hair. But there was not a breath of wind in the Forest. The moon was high and the stillness profound, but no calm came to him from the night and encompassed him. And the loneliness he had longed for, and that was now his, did not bring him any real feeling of relief. Indeed, he felt the exasperation of his nerves even more keenly now than when, in the carriage, he had been trying to edge away from the South American. Had Leri gone on to the Asile Vert? No doubt he must have done so. Jack looked back down the road which was lit by the moon. He saw no one upon it. The light from the Asile Vert had disappeared. Jack was now too far off for its ray to reach him. After standing still for several minutes, wondering what he was going to do, he gave way to an impulse which at the moment he did not understand. It was like a blind impulse. He could not now go to the Asile Vert. But he felt that he could not go back to Fontainebleau and the lights of the Hotel Mirabeau. The Forest lay before him. In its breathless silence it seemed to call him mystically but powerfully. He crossed the moonlit road and plunged into the shadows of the trees. T WAS past three in the morning when Jack rang the night bell at the door of the Hotel Mirabeau. After he had rung four times the night porter appeared with apologies. He had evidently been “losing” himself for a few minutes in the course of his unattractive duties. When he saw who was at the door he said, ‘“‘A gentleman has been here asking for M’sieu.” “Who was it?” “Monsieur Leri from Barbizon. written a note for M’sieu.”’ “Where is it?” “In the bureau, M’sieu. I will fetch it.” “T want a drink,” said Jack. He thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out some money. “Here! This is for you.” He gave the porter ten francs. “And now get me something “What will M’sieu have?” “Whisky and Perrier. But bring the bottle. I'll pour out the whisky myself.” When the man came back with Leri’s note and the bottles and a tall tumbler, Jack half-filled the tumbler with the spirits, added some Perrier water, took the note, and went slowly and heavily up the narrow staircase between the crowds of prints that covered the walls. His body felt tired out, but his mind was now strongly alert. His mental confusion had left him. The long lonely walk in the Forest had thoroughly cleared his brain. But he wanted to sleep. Perhaps the whisky would help him to unconsciousness. Softly he went down the passage, glancing furtively at the grotesque figures between the frames on either side of him, opened his bed- room door, slipped in, locked it, and turned on the electric light. The night ,was fading into the dawn, but he meant to shut the dawn out. And he went over to the window to pull to the Persiennes. For a moment, before doing this, he leaned out above the little garden from which rose a delicate freshness, light yet pungent, an intimate message from nature. 7 here was the place where Madame Diane had come to him in the night, the place where he had “turned her down.” His lips twisted in a smile which nearly developed into a laugh. She hadn’t reckoned with his En glish nature. What a fool, or worse, she must have thought him. And perhaps he had been a fool. Anyhow it was too late to change things now. He drew in the wooden shutters and fastened them. Then he went to the bathroom and turned on the cold water tap. asked Jack, apathetically. He has quickly!” He needed cold water badly. While the water was running with its hissing purr he stripped off his clothes. Leri had told him to go naked. Well, he was naked now. He turned off the tap, stepped into the full bath, sat down, lay back, let his head go under and kept it under till the blood buzzed in his temples. That was good! That was like a benedic- tion. He got out, dried himself quickly and cruelly with a rough towel, slipped on his pajamas, left the bathroom, and went to the table in the middle of the bedroom. There stood his long drink, and beside it lay the letter, or note, from Leri. He picked up the latter and turned it in his hand. What could Leri have to write to him about? They had only been separated for a few hours. As he held the thin blue paper in his fingers Jack received the impression that hidden from him by the envelop there were words he wouldn't like, words that would be disagree- able to him. Jack laid the letter down and put his hand to the tumbler. There was ice in it and he felt a cold dew upon the glass. He lifted it to his mouth and drank greedily. Then he sat, or rather sank, down on a chair. He had walked far and for a long time. He was certainly very tired. Perhaps because of that the whisky went to his head. His body was deliciously cool from the bath, but now, abruptly, his head felt hot. His eyes were still on the bit of blue paper, but he could not make up his mind to tear it and see what was inside. Nevertheless, he could not make up his mind to tear it up and throw it away. He just sat there staring at it, while gradually the whisky warmed his body as well as his head. Presently a change operated within him. He began to feel careless, then more than careless—reckless. A muddle of thoughts spun through him, jostling, pressing on each other. HE conversation at the club came back to him. He saw the men in their low, deep chairs, and heard them talking through the cigar smoke. He was there, too, voicing his disbelief in women. And then he was silent listening to Torrington’s description of An- toinette Durier. Kit had treated him damned badly. She had broken him up. He had never been quite his own man since she had thrown him over. Not till he had known Antoinette had he begun to get back his belief in women, and yet she was the one who had been surprised that such a belief was possible. And now he knew that she was twenty times worse than Kit. For he was not able to doubt the truth of what Leri had told him that evening. Kit had been tactless, frivolous, fickle, but she had surely been straight in the conventional sense of that word. She had had a reckless air as if she didn’t care what she did. She had been out to have a good time; like so many English girls of her type. But she had surely kept within the boundary line that Antoinette had apparently quietly and composedly over- stepped years ago. The strange thing was that now, mentally comparing the two women, but not coolly, with a sort of extravagant haste, Jack saw Kit as the improper one of the two. It was she who was stamped with the seal of vanity. It was she whose eyes were forever roaming in search of the admiration of men. In Antoinette he could not, remember- ing, detect the least trace of the so-called Scarlet Woman. Why compare the two women, Kit and Antoinette? The one had jilted him, the other was only a shadow in his life and would fade away with the morning. He was free, as only that man is free who does not live under the stretched-out hand of a woman, the grasping hand, small, delicate, but with clutching fingers, imperative, dominating, that will not let go their hold. He was free. And he would remain free. The recklessness grew in him. All his body was warm now, tired, but warm and careless. And it belonged to him. It did not belong to a woman. And his soul was his own, too. No woman had possession of it. For a moment it seemed to him that he gloried in that knowledge of his freedom. But then, almost instantly, he remembered the Forest. N THAT clearing of the Forest he had believed himself, invaded by the ultimate coldness. It had seemed to him that he was condemned to isolation, although no man surely needed more than he did companion- ship, understanding, and love. He was really a soft man, soft in heart that is, but terribly shy of showing it. But women surely, most women, were hard. Kit had somehow tricked him into the belief that she had a soft heart. It was not true. And then, after the interval of horrible loneliness typified for him by the little flat in St. James’s Street, with as companion a pipe and a whisky and soda, he had at last found (Continued on page 144) 143 ANCHOR SANDAL Al Delman Sheer are Made by Delman S58 Maddon Avenue Bet. 55th and 56th New York, Luc. Liccatt &4 Myers ToBacco Co "What a whale of a difference just a few cents make”’ 2 : ' “Something better” LET ME SEE something better” says the customer—very frequently indeed. That something better in an automobile may cost several hundred or perhaps even several thousand dollars more; but in a cigarette it costs just three cents more EF £

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144 ports frock for ‘Southern wear, in crepe de chine, combining the smart simplicity of today with a new note in the shirring down the front. W¥-H-DAVIDOW:SONS-C? 550 Seventh Avenue NewYork. t DAVENTREE Sportswear my be found at the Betger Shops ; VN &S) Nels ¢ A us BAY YK A@ (Sr 42 OUT, 7G ps BS \ = Ces conemucal mdounder Rarfectl G fies Deadhd, POINT DE PARIS BINCHE VAL BIRKIN AND COMPANY~ NEW YORK,NY ON THE Robert Hichens’ HARPER’S BAZAR SCREEN Novel (Continued from page 143) softness, sincerity, something of the ideal woman, in the figure on the screen now known to him in the flesh. And she was one of the women he instinc- tively feared and hated, feared because he thought of them as inexorable huntresses, hated because they betrayed their woman- hood. And in the loneliness of the clearing, surrounded in his patch of moonlight by the stretching darkness of the Forest, Jack had thoroughly realized that for the second time in his life he had fallen in love, and that for the second time in his life he had made a tremendous mistake. His must be a singu- larly futile brain allied to a singularly inept heart, a misjudging brain linked with a heart that was bound to go wrong in its journey after love. Such a muddle-headed, muddle- hearted fellow was destined to loneliness. He picked up the letter and tore the thin envelop. There was a sheet of note-paper inside, but there was something else too, another note in an envelop folded closely in half. Jack unfolded it. On the envelop was written in a rather large, but delicate, hand- writing—a Monsieur Richborough. Jack laid the enclosure down. Perhaps it was from Krahmer, written by him in the Asile Vert, and given to Leri to leave at the hotel. He straightened out the sheet of note- paper. On it was written, of course in French, the following: Hotel Mirabeau. “‘Where in the name of all the Calen- dar Saints are you? Gone to Paris, I shouldn’t wonder, after refusing to go there with me. If this is being English, give me a comrade from the Argentine. Anyhow if you do condescend to come back before to-morrow afternoon you'll find me in No. 5” (Leri in the hotel!) “You missed lobster,champagne, peaches, Chopin and—oh, yes, I had almost forgotten—Antoinette, at the Asile Vert. My old boy, it was great! I told them you came with me to the threshold and then lost heart and ran away. Antoinette asked ‘Why?’ and Krahmer struck up *Warum’ on the piano. Here’s some- thing for you. You don’t deserve it. But women always run after men who run away from them. Fontainebleau hasn’t a cat stirring, so I’m going to bed. Half-past two! What are you doing? Ah, you English! Who that is not English can ever understand you? Keep your secrets. I have told you all mine. Atonzo LeErI.” ACK dropped this note on the table and took up the enclosure. How they must have been laughing at him in the Asile Vert! He could see the big soft hands of Krahmer straying sarcastically over the piano in Schumann’s delicate enigma, could see his large face faintly smiling as he asked in music the question that Antoinette had asked with lips. But did it matter? He was not going to see them again. For Leri would surely sleep late in number 5, and he, Jack, would be off by an early train. He had made up his mind. He didn’t care, he didn’t care a damn and he would go. And his face hardened as he opened Antoinette’s letter. It was written on paper stamped with Krahmer’s address. “Dear Friend: Why did you run away? We should have welcomed you. But perhaps you prefer the Maison Blanche to the Asile Vert. If it is so, come there to déjeuner to-morrow, and we will sit in the garden afterwards among Tini Grau’s too red flowers and talk while Coquelin enjoys his patch of shade under the lime tree. Do not answer this, but just come. A little food, not much, at half-past twelve. ANTOINETTE DvrRIER.” And no postscript—wonderful! Even in a letter she was not like the other women. “But I am not going!”’ Jack said to him- self, after a long pause, as he got up slowly to go at last to bed. “I am not going. I shall not be here.” And he thought of the adventurous pursuit, veiled of course, of Madame Diane, and of the secret of the Asile Vert which he had not yet discovered, which now of course he would never discover. For it did not concern him, and it did not interest him. He was the free man glorying in his freedom. He stepped up into the big high bed and sank down on the enormous pillows. He switched off the light. Outside he heard the faint chirp of a bird. He shut his eyes deliberately, and immediately felt an im- mense fatigue, both physical and mental, and the conscious pleasure of giving himself up to repose. Just before he fell asleep he saw the outline of a narrow hand. It seemed to be stretched out in the dimness above his breast, a little to the left, on the heart side. The palm was slightly hollowed; the long fingers hung down and looked purposeful, as if they were going to grasp something. He did not hear anything, but vaguely in his mind went the words: ‘You're mine! You’re mine!” Who had said them to him? Was it Kit? He turned over and sighed. Was it Antoinette Durier? AKNOCE on his door waked Jack out of heavy sleep. He lay still and listened, The knock was repeated twice, and suddenly his mind woke and he knew who was outside the door. Leri had slept in the hotel. It must be he. Jack turned over with an ob- stinate face to the wall. Half an hour later he ventured out of bed and with a surreptitious finger pushed the bell for breakfast. During that half hour he had reviewed many things. The elderly housemaid brought a delicious meal and with a smiling face wished Monsieur good morning. Then, standing by the door, she added, “Monsieur your friend has gone to Paris. He came to say good-by, but finding Mon- sieur fast asleep he had to leave to catch the train.” “Thank God!” said Jack, in sound English. “Monsieur?” Jack regretted in French that he had not seen his friend, and sat down in his pajamas to breakfast. It was already past ten. While he had lain with his face to the wall after Leri’s knocking he had thought something out and had de- cided that he must see Antoinette Durier once more. The free man need not fear any woman. To go away brusquely without even a word of good-by would be to show cowardice, would be an indication that he was afraid of a meeting. It would be impolite, unnatural. His resolution of the night, or rather of the early morning, had died in the sunshine of day. He would do the simple, manly, natural thing. He would accept Mlle. Durier’s invita- tion, would go to déjeuner at the Maison Blanche, would say good-by to her after- wards, and would leave for Paris by an after- noon train. After breakfast he made his toilet and carefully packed his belongings. Then, only then, he wrote a polite little note accepting Mlle. Durier’s invitation and sent it up to the white house. That done, with calmness and decision—he was quite resolved, quite cheer- ful, entirely unexcited—he asked for his bill and informed the bureau that he regretted very much that he was obliged to cut his delightful visit short and to go back to England. The bureau—Madame was not visible— was very sorry and presented the bill. Jack paid it and got a receipt. By this time the hour of eleven had chimed above the town, and the waiters were arrang- ing the tables for déjeuner in the courtyard under the red awnings. Jack’s friend was superintending their labors, and as Jack came out he smiled a greeting. ““Monsieur’s table will be ready at half- past twelve.” Jack explained that he was lunching with Mile. Durier at the Maison Blanche, and added that he had to leave by the 5:15 train for Paris. “Monsieur is going to the theater, no doubt. The theaters of Paris are the best in Europe.” ““No, I am going away.” The waiter looked genuinely surprised, then almost gravely concerned, but he only said, “We shall miss Monsieur very much.” “T hate going!” said Jack, with sudden impulsiveness. “‘I—I love this place.’’ He paused, then added, “But I’ve got to go,” and walked rather hurriedly out of the courtyard. He had more than an hour at his disposal, and resolved to spend it in the outskirts of the Forest. He might not see the Forest again. One never knew! He felt that he must say good-by to it. AMONG the beech-trees not far from the tennis courts he came upon Krahmer, strolling bareheaded with his hands clasped behind him, frowning and singing to himself in an under voice, while the slabs of hair shook behind. his large ears as he wagged his head gently from side to side. When Krahmer saw Jack he stopped. “Hullo, I’m out here getting things straight in my head. Why didn’t you come in last night?” “T was tired. Been out all day. Besides, I was afraid of disturbing you.” “Not a bit of it! Come in to-morrow night. I’m obliged to be working to-night.” ACK explained that he was going away. Krahmer looked genuinely surprised. That didn’t surprise Jack. But something else did. For immediately afterwards Krahmer’s large face seemed to express a strong incredulity. (Continued on page 145)

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FEBRUARY 1926 ON THE Robert for Hichens’ SCREEN Novel (Continued from page 144) “Not really?” he said. “T leave by the 5:15 train,” said Jack, with rather brusque decision. “I am going back to England.” Krahmer looked at Jack with his hard ay ig blue eyes and pushed up his sen- sual lips. Then he said, with a touch of irony, $ Ti red of us already?” “No,” said Jack. “But I’m sure you’d all get damned tired of me if I stayed on here. He did not mean to say it. He did not know why he said it, nor why he added, “You're all intellectual, full of talent, artistic. I’m not. I’m an ordinary man, and I'm sure you have no use for the ordinary man.’ There was bitterness in his voice, and he knew it, but somehow he had not been able to keep the bitterness out. He was “giving himself away.”’ That was detestable. That was against his code. But he had suddenly— he did not know why—got out of control. “Ordinary people must seem infernz ally tiresome and limited to artists, I’m sure,” he concluded. And yet, while he was saying it, he felt something of the pride of the ordinary English- man who thanks God in his soul for not being “odd.” “Well,” said Krahmer, “if you’re a type of the ordinary fellow, I like him. Fact is, my dear chap, one can get very sick of the eccen- tricities of the talented. And even genius can be the devil between four walls.” Reminiscence seemed for a moment to shine in his eyes. And Jack remembered that he had been married to a famous American dancer. ““Geniuses ought to live always in separate houses,” he continued. “If they don’t, and if—what’s worse—they sleep together in a double bed, it’s hell. You'll say good-by to Antoinette?” “To Mlle. Durier? Yes. I’m going to lunch with her now. I must be off.” Again the look of incredulity showed on the large clean-shaven surface of Krahmer’s powerful face. “Then if I don’t see you again—good-by,” he said. He held out a large soft hand. Jack shook it and said, ‘Good-by.” And as he walked away he could not tell whether he hated Krahmer or liked him. IS own outburst had startled him. It had been revelatory of a state of mind which suddenly made him afraid. But it would act as a warning. Till he finally left Fontaine- bleau he would be on his guard. As he walked up to the door of the Maison Blanche he decided that he would at once tell Mile. Durier of his imminent departure. The expression of incredulity on Krahmer’s large face had put fear into his soul. That clever man did not believe in his decision about that afternoon. Did he believe in it himself? Yes, for he had made up his mind, and his experience with Kit had trained him out of slavery. Nevertheless he was conscious of the pathos of his situation as he rang the bell of that delicious, that dreaming house. There was magic here and he chose to leave it. And Krahmer was staying on. These artists were lucky devils. They could work where they would. The thought of the Stock Ex- change sickened Jack at that moment. ‘he Frenchwoman let him in with a greet- ing, and took him into the drawing-room, where he found Mlle. Durier sitting on a sofa reading an illustrated book on Tunisia. As he came in she put the book down and said, “IT am getting ready for my journey to Africa.” _ She held out her narrow hand. As he took it he said, “When do you start?” “* At the beginning of October.” “And I start back to England to-day,” blurted out. She looked up at him but said nothing. “ Déjeuner is served, Madame,”’ said a voice at the door. Mlle. Durier got up and they went into the dining-room which looked out into the garden at the back of the house. “T leave by the five-fifteen train for Paris,” said Jack, as they sat down. “And cross to England to-morrow.” She said nothing, and helped him to some = eggs out of a rather ornate silver dish. “T shall be in the turmoil of the Stock Exchange when you are sacrificing yourself for others in Southern Tunisia,” continued Jack, with steady cheerfulness. “Will you have white wine?” “Yes, please. . . Thank you.’ She helped herself to scrambled eggs. ‘It’s awfully good of you to give me this chance of saying good-by.’ “You meant to call this going?” she said. Jack hesitated. But something in him drove him on to truth and he answered, “No.” As she said nothing he felt forced to add some explanation. “You are all so clever he afternoon before and talented here. I’m not. I didn’ t think you would care to be bothe sred with me.’ “Going! What a pity!” she said. “I had intended to ask you for an invitation.” ‘An invitation?” “Ves. I dislike dining alone. Last night I dined with Mr. Krahmer at the Asile Vert. To-night I have no engagement. I had thought of suggesting that we, you and I, might dine at Franchard to-night in the Forest. And now you are going to England.” Jack reddened. “T thought perhaps you would be my host,” she added. Jack put down the glass of white wine which he had just touched with his lips. He felt ““cornered,’’ as he would have put it. Yet he did not feel that there was any intention on her part to get him into a difficulty. Simply he believed that she was telling him the truth. Here he was, eating her food, and drinking her wine, and intending to bolt in a few hours without having ever offered her any hospitality. “T’m awfully sorry—” he stammered. “Never mind. It will be for another time— if we ever come across each other again. This poulet en casserole is done with little onions. Do you mind onions?” “No.” Jack’s face was still red and he was feeling like an inhospitable “sweep. “I do wish I — Where is Franchard?”’ “‘ About forty minutes from here by carriage, in the Forest.” “Ts it a village like Barbizon?” “Oh, no. Only a little restaurant quite alone. One dines out of doors; an arbor with a thatched roof and a fir-tree growing by it. When = are here again you must go there. Is this Sauterne too sweet for you?” “Indeed, no. It’s topping—delicious. I—” he hesitated, thought of his paid bill, his packed trunks. But hang it all he ought to return a woman’s hospitality. It would really be caddish not to. He hadn’t thought of that when he accepted this invitation. And now he was in a hole. “T wish I had known,” he concluded lamely. “Known?” “That you—about Franchard.” “T should have told you last night if you had come in with Leri.” “At Mr. Krahmer’s!”’ said Jack Directly he had said it he realized what a gaffe he had made. “And why not at Mr. Krahmer’s?” she asked, looking at him with her agate-like eyes as if in quiet inquiry. ACK felt almost certain now that Krahmer was Antoinette Durier’s lover. He also felt little doubt that Krahmer knew that he, Jack, was tremendously attracted by her. Wouldn’t a lover be jealous if his mistress went out into the Forest at night alone with a man who was obviously falling in love with her? His exclamation ‘At Mr. Krahmer’s!” had really meant or implied that. And yet Krahmer had certainly never shown the faintest jealousy of Jack. On the contrary- Jack remembered this now—there had been something in his incredulous face, in his voice when he said, “You'll say good-by to Antoinette?” which suggested almost the contrary of jealousy, a subtle understanding of Jack’s state of mind, a subtle desire even to—but there Jack stopped short, feeling confused, feeling that he did not understand Krahmer, though Krahmer surely under- stood him. “T have been to his house. Shouk In’t I have had to ask him to dine with us?” he said, awkwardly. “And if he had been entertaining me again!” ‘I don’t think he would have suggested that,” she said, with a faint smile. ‘You rean the cutlet. for cutlet? Is that it?” fell, I— Well, in England we—’ “*Have some more chicken.” “Thank you.” He had a ridiculous feeling that in accept- ‘ng a second helping, and some more of the delicious little onions, he was increasing his crime of lése-hos pitalité. “T don’t think Mr. Krahmer is so con ventional as to expect tea for tea, cake for cake, or even dinner for supper,’’ she said. “All that is nonsense.” “Will you dine with me to-night at Fran- chard?” he exclaimed. He expected her to utter some protest, but when she at once replied, ‘“‘ Yes. I want to he realized that his expectation had been very foolish. She was never banal, never like every one else. She said nothing now about his proposed departure, about his abrupt volte-face. While he was still under an impression of wonder at what he had done without intending to do it—hadn’'t really the second helping of poulet en casserole been responsible for the crude alteration of plans?—she was quietly talking about Franchard, recalling to his memory Steven- (Continued on page 146) 145 RESURRECTION CREAM Its marvelous power can eradicate and become once more youthful. as a preventive. The last word and the highest perfe valuable uses. AMANDINE renders the skin radiantly clear. gives color to the dullest skin. 8 oz. Bottle $3.00; EAU COMTESSE beneath which the new, The reputation of our tre for 35 years. J. W. Robinson & Co. Los Angeles, Cal. INSTITUT de B Circle 4935 = this but the harshest and roughest skin will yield itself to its soothing influences It acts, of course, not only as a remedy but LIQUID ENAMEL “Platinine” instantaneous but its action as a stimulant for blood circulation is one of its most The youthful firmness it gives to your features is lasting. 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MONOGRAM MATCH PACKS MONOGRAM GLASSWARE VENETIAN GLASSWARE THE CAN-DLE-LUXE SHOP (CANDLES OF QUALITY) 619-H Madison Avenue, New York = PORCELAINS ppossessonafatics ON THE Robert Hichens’ HARPER’S BAZAR SCREEN Novel (Continued from page 145) son’s story about the place, preparing him for a somewhat Bohemian dinner. “But it’s quite clean,” she said. ‘“‘And cuisine bourgeoise. And the quiet there at night is like a balm.” “You have often been there?” The question came sharply. “* Sometimes—with Tini Grau,”’ she replied. Jack felt that he had deserved the “with Tini Grau.” What a baby she must think him! What a baby he seemed to himself. HEN he reached the hotel his friend the waiter, wearing a smart straw hat with a black riband, was just coming out of the courtyard with a walking stick in his hand and a cigaret between his lips. On seeing Jack he took off his hat. “I must wish Monsieur good-by,” he said. “This is my afternoon off, and as Monsieur is catching the 5:15 train—”’ “I’m not going,” said Jack. The waiter smiled. “Till to-morrow. I’ve decided to dine at Franchard to-night.” “At Franchard!”’ The waiter pursed his lips doubtfully. “Tt is a pretty little place, Monsieur. But the cuisine, the wines! I hope Monsieur will be satisfied.” “T’ll walk a few steps with you,” said Jack “Monsieur is too kind.” When they reached the café of the Cadran Bleu Jack offered the waiter a drink, and they sat down by a little table on the pave- ment. Jack ordered two Grand Marniers, gave the waiter a cigar, and began to talk of Mlle. Durier. He hated what he was doing, he despised himself for doing it, yet he could not refrain from doing it. Through the waiter really he had come to know Mlle. Durier. The waiter must, Jack felt sure, know all about her. His discretion in regard to her had been marked. Still he must know. And since he had put off his departure, and had arranged to dine with Mlle. Durier at Franchard, Jack felt that further enlighten- ment about this strange woman was necessary to him. To “pump” a waiter was not a pleasant task. But a man in love, and especially a man afraid in love—as Jack was —is often driven to unpleasant expedients. He tried to proceed with subtlety, though subtlety was, perhaps, scarcely the most marked feature in his character. He as- sumed, as he supposed, a cloak of French immorality, his aim being “to draw the waiter out.”” Throwing away the British prudery he had unfortunately manifested more than once to the waiter in respect to Mile. Durier and Madame Diane, he now talked airily of the charms of light women, and even forced the French note until it became somewhat shrill. The waiter seemed unsuspicious of these wiles and, warmed by Grand Marnier, responded with cheerful alertness. Afterwards Jack, when thinking things over, felt pretty sure that the clever old man, who had long looked upon life at the little tables under the red awnings, had realized at once the reason of his hospi- table entertainment at the Cadran Bleu, and had thought it incumbent upon him to “sing for his supper.’’ However it was—he sang. Mile. Durier was, or had been, ‘“‘as Monsieur had just remarked,” one of the brightest ornaments of the demi-monde of Paris, not one of those common pretty women who take a vulgar pride in throwing the money of men away with both hands, but a refined, intelligent, delicate creature, the créme de la creme of her class, whom the ultra-refined men of her day had always delighted in. She had invariably been surrounded by the more subtle libertines—only the waiter didn’t use that word, which had probably no meaning in his brain—of Paris. The rich Jews, the canaille of the Bourse’ and of the money markets in general, had had no attraction for her. She had preferred the art lovers, the wealthy dilettanti, the intellectuals and the encouragers of intellect. She had chosen her lovers among them. Monsieur had alluded to a Dutch Jew! It might be that such a one had launched Mlle. Durier upon her career as a star of the screen. Indeed, the waiter had heard as much. But there were, as Monsieur of course knew, Jews and Jews. The waiter’s predilections were the reverse of Semitic. Nevertheless, as one who valued intellectual capacity wherever he found it, he must acknowledge that many of the finest intellects of the day were to be found among the children of Israel. And a woman such as Mlle. Durier was could not ignore that. ACK listened, and smoked, and sipped at his liqueur glass, and saw the very few strollers of Fontainebleau pass by in the street. He felt very small, very absurd, as he remem- bered his remarks about Mlle. Durier to the waiter only a few days ago. He had said that she looked a very serious woman, a charming woman of course, but not the type a man would dream of taking a liberty with. When the waiter had remarked that Mlle. Durier doubtless had a great many lovers Jack had pulled him up sharply with a “she doesn’t look like that type of woman at all!” And all the time—what could the waiter have thought of him? What was he thinking now? It didn’t much matter. Nevertheless Jack did not feel at his best under the shrewd dark eyes of his worldly-wise companion. And he began, for the first time, to realize how much waiters know, and even—so_ whimsically strays the mind sometimes—thought of a name for a new Barrie play, “What Every Waiter Knows!” But that would have to be a play of appalling realism. And Jack felt a sudden dark sense of depression descend upon him, was enveloped in the cloud of reality. “Tl have another Grand Marnier,” he said. “‘ Waiter!” “Monsieur?” said his friend. Jack explained. “Waiter, two more Grand Marniers!” There was still something that Jack wanted to know, felt he must know. And he turned the conversation to Krahmer. A very great pianist, the waiter understood. But he could not set up to be a judge of piano-players, though he had a daughter who was getting on well with her musical studies, and who could play an impromptu by the famous Saint-Saéns now unhappily dead. A great friend of Mlle. Durier—Monsieur Krahmer? But of course. Every one knew that. Why did everybody know it? The waiter seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he remarked that Monsieur was English, and perhaps did not follow the events of Paris with special interest. In France of course it was different. What was known to fout Paris speedily became known to the greater part of the French nation. For the French were, as Monsieur perhaps knew, great newspaper readers, and not inclined to reject even a little choice bit of scandal as likely to be unwholesome to the mental stomach—if he might be permitted the expression. “Do you mean that there has been a public scandal about Mlle. Durier?’”’ asked Jack, with a sinking of the heart. “Well, Monsieur knows what women are!” said the waiter. “‘And Madame Krahmer— Iphigenia Howland, the famous American dancer—is very temperamental. Monsieur must have heard of her.” ACK had, could even recall several escapades of the lively Iphigenia which had got into the newspapers. Indeed her temper had been the talk of two Continents from time to time. “La belle Iphigenie, it seems, loved her husband. . . .” “Mr. Krahmer?”’ ““Monsieur Krahmer—exactly. And there- fore she was not pleased when Mlle. Durier, who is very musical, began to consider Monsieur Krahmer a greater genius than even Monsieur Paderewski.” “Well, but every one has a right to admire an artist who is before the public. There is nothing in that.” “No. But Monsieur knows what women are. As my wife says—poor soul, she under- stands her sex—when a woman admires music she likes to get at the man behind the music. A song it is nice; the singer perhaps even nicer. And so with a pianist.” Suddenly Jack remembered that Madame had told him Krahmer had separated from his wife, and that they had been unhappy to- gether. Had Mlle. Durier perhaps been the cause of this unhappiness? “Was it Mlle. Durier who broke up Mr. Krahmer’s married life?’’ he asked bluntly. ‘“Madame told me something about it.” The waiter raised his dark eyebrows as if in mild deprecation. These English methods were certainly not his. “One would scarcely care to say that, Monsieur. But it was like this. Madame Krahmer—as indeed she publicly said in the restaurant of the Ritz Hotel when she found Monsieur Krahmer having déjewner there with Mile. Durier—did not choose to share.” The waiter paused. “Share! Do you mean to share her husband with another woman?” “Tt seemed so, Monsieur. Mlle. Durier, on the other hand, did not care—what charm- ing woman would care?—to give up a friend- ship with a great musical genius. Sincerely she believes Monsieur Krahmer greater even than Monsieur Paderewski. And after hav- ing been slapped—” “*Slapped!”’ exclaimed Jack. “Madame Krahmer it seems, though a dancer, is also very ready with her hands.” ‘She slapped Mlle. Durier in public!” “She did, Monsieur—according to the Figaro, and other reputable newspapers. “What an outrage!” “Naturally—Monsieur knows what women are—after that Mlle. Durier did not feel that it would be dignified to break her acquaint- ance with Monsieur Krahmer. As my wile (Continued on page 147)

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for FEBRUARY 1926 ON THE Robert Hichens’ SCREEN Novel (Continued from page 146) says, no woman cares to be slapped off from a man by another woman, even if the other woman happens to be his wife. It is not the thing at all. Besides, Monsieur, no musician, to say nothing of the rest of us, can be expected to limit his life to one woman. Where would he get enough inspiration? He must seek it in likely places.” “And he found it in Mlle. Durier?” “Tt seems so. She has inspired many brilliant men—in that way.” Again the waiter allowed himself the luxury of a slight smile. “Toes Monsieur know the name they give her in Paris?” “No.” “They call her ‘The Velvet Glove,’ Mon- sieur.” Jack remembered the hand he had seen in the darkness, a narrow hand with a slightly hollowed palm and long purposeful fingers. The iron hand in the velvet glove? “Waiter!” He called for the bill. He wanted to be alone. When the bill was paid he got up. “Well—” he said. The waiter raised his straw hat and thanked Jack in well-chosen words for the hospitality shown him. Then, instead of at once going on his way, he added, after a slight hesitation, “But these artists, Monsieur, they are like the bees. Monsieur Krahmer does not go from flower to flower. No. But he goes from intelligence to intelligence, as Madame says. In his necessity to change he is bee-like. Ah!” “Do you mean that—” “He has recently given Mlle. Durier a bulldog.” “T have seen the dog, an ugly brute.” “T believe he is a pedigree dog, Monsieur. Monsieur Krahmer has a brother in Touraine who breeds pedigree bulldogs.” “Really? Well?” “Tt seems—every great man has his eccen- tricities, Monsieur—that several charming ladies possess pedigree dogs offered by Mon- sieur Krahmer. These dogs, they say, are his good-bys. When he gives a bulldog he is on the way to a fresh intelligence. Very original, Monsieur, isn’t it? But Monsieur Krahmer is an original. And now, Monsieur, a thou- sand thanks for your kindness.” HEN he left the café of the Cadran Bleu there was still time for Jack to repack his suit-cases and to catch the 5:15 train to Paris. His first impulse on parting from the waiter was to do that. Although he told himself that he ought not to believe all the information that dropped from the lips of a waiter moistened by a couple of glasses of Grand Marnier, yet he did believe what he had just heard. He even believed the report about the pedigree bulldogs, absurd though it seemed on the face of it. Something in Krahmer’s face, voice, manner that morning in the Forest, now sharply remembered and linked up with certain words of the waiter, made Jack feel sure that Krahmer did not want him to go away from Fontainebleau, and did want his ac- quaintance with Antoinette Durier to prosper. Why was that? If what the waiter had hinted was true the cause of that apparent altruism was fairly obvious. But then Krahmer must certainly believe that Mlle. Durier was interested in the English stranger. Was she? Jack asked himself that question, and an ugly memory came up in his mind, the remembrance of Madame Diane coming out into the dark garden of the Hotel Mirabeau. He heard again the faint rustle of a dress, saw the shape of a huge hat, smelt again a faint per- fume. A pair of unnaturally bright eyes looked into his. Mlle. Durier, it seemed, belonged to the same world as Madame Diane. And although methods may be different intentions may not differ. Many women love to possess. And Jack heard an English voice saying fiercely, ‘You’re mine! You're mine!” Crude frankness there! An absolute lack of subtlety! But at any rate with an English girl a man knew where he was. And when he was thrown over he knew where he wasn’t. Kit and Mlle. Durier seemed to Jack to have nothing in common. Yet perhaps they shared an appetite. For a moment he suspected a like- ness between them. He went into the hotel with the full inten- tion of at once repacking his luggage and bolting from Fontainebleau. But as it chanced he met “Madame” in the lobby at the foot of the narrow staircase, and Madame congratulated him on having changed his mind and decided to stay on, and he simply hadn’t the courage to tell her that he had again changed his mind, and that having packed, and then unpacked, his things he was now hurrying up-stairs to repack them. She looked so penetrating and so decisive that he dared not light the lamp of sarcasm i those dark and comprehending eyes of hers. He would stay, and as he was staying he would have to go to Franchard. For he could not be grossly rude to a woman who had shown him hospitality. How right he had been in his disbelief in women! And how wrong he had been in falling once more into the old slough of romantic trust! But this time he had had a lesson that he would not forget in a lifetime. Mlle. Durier slapped at the Ritz by an out- raged American wife! Mlle. Durier, in spite of that assault, sticking to her pianist, refus- ing to be “slapped off” from him because to be slapped off would be undignified! What a conception of feminine dignity was mani- fested by such obstinacy! And now the sinister gift ‘of the pedigree bulldog, symp- tomatic, if the waiterjwere right, of the pianist’s desire to pass on to another “intelligence.” ILL the evening came Jack brooded over his situation. The strange thing was, as he told himself, that though he believed what he had been told about Mlle. Durier yet he could not feel it to be true. She had been at no pains with him to hide her contempt of sentimentality. Several times he had been surprised, indeed almost hurt, by her blunt sincerity in statement. He remembered re- marks of hers: ‘One does not always suggest what one really is. That might be a great mistake in a world of illusions.” “I think the world in general prefers one’s pose to one’s reality.” “I only do those things,” i.e., the noble things, ‘“‘on the screen.” “ am perpetually doing things in films that I should never do in my life.” And once she had said to him inflexibly, “Men can take care of themselves. ... Unselfishness is wasted on men.” Why had he idealized the woman who had said these things to him, these and many others of a similar type? It was as if she had warned him not to sentimentalize about her. But there was something in her expres- sion, her personality, her “atmosphere” which seemed to contradict reports of her, even to contradict her own report of herself. Blunt in speech, was she, perhaps, so marvel- ously deceptive in manner that her “ooks and her ways lied perpetually about her character and got themselves believed, while her truth-telling tongue was doubted? Jack felt dreadfully restless and uneasy as the time drew near when he was due at the Maison Blanche. He realized now that Kit had never interested him. He had been madly in love with her, but his love-madness had had nothing to do with the mind. It seemed to him now that real tragedy had overtaken him, because an essential part of him was in love which had never been got at by a woman before. His brain seemed entangled in this matter as well as his heart. ie HAD been arranged that they were to be at Franchard about eight o’clock, and that Jack was to call for Mile. Durier with a carriage forty minutes sooner. He picked up a victoria, driven by a small, very neat, and self-possessed boy, with a pink face and a black bow necktie, outside the Palace, and drove to the Maison Blanche. He rang the bell and asked for Mile. Durier. As on such occasions women always keep men waiting, Jack expected that she would appear at once, and he was not mistaken. Her unlike- ness to other women even involved strict punctuality. She came out immediately, dressed in a white cloth coat and skirt and a black hat, and holding Coquelin by the thin silver chain. At sight of the bulldog Jack felt, and probably showed, disappoint- ment. That coarse-featured, staring pedi- gree brute would be, he thought, an intoler- able third in the dinner party. ‘Shall we take Coquelin?”’ she said, as she gave him her hand. Jack moved his feet brusquely. The bull- dog was already at work about his ankles. “Tf you wish it,” he said. “T don’t believe 1 do. We'll leave him. Marie, give him a bone.” “Ves, Madame.” “He'll prefer that to us.” She handed the end of the chain to the maid and got into the carriage. “‘There will be no moon to-night,” she said, as they drove off. ‘I’m glad.” “Why?” “Tn all poems and novels there is always a moon on such occasions as this,” she replied. “Even the stars have become conventional- ized by the raptures of second-rate writers. Nature is very strong, but scarcely strong enough to withstand the perpetual assaults of men and women with pens in their hands. To-night there are clouds everywhere, but not rain clouds. This is the gray I love in the Forest.” Jack thought of the Scarlet Woman. Surely Mile. Durier was not that. Was she not, perhaps, the Gray Woman, unostentatious, full of delicate muances, neutral tinted, muffled, like the sky, in a soft veil which was unrevealing? But he must pierce the veil presently. (To be concluded in the March issue) Something NEW 147 l for BOBBED HAIR THERE is a tremendous difference in bobs. Some are wonderfully attractive and becoming, while others, well — which kind is yours? I wish you could picture the becoming kind I have in mind—the sort that makes men turn to admire. I can’t tell you what the color is, but it’s full of those tiny dancing lights that somehow su auburn, yet which are really no more actual color than sunlight is. It’s only when the head is moved that you catch the auburn sugges- tion — the fleeting glint of gold. You have no idea how much your bob can be improved with the “tiny tint” Golden Glint Shampoo will give it. If you want a bob like that I have in mind, ckage and see for yourself. At all drug stores, or send 25¢ direct to “—* J.W. Kosi Co., 632 Rainier Avenue, Seattle, Golden Glint SHAMPOO Stop ain quickly A= bruise, wrench or sprain — there’s no need to suffer pro- longed pain—or be laid up for hours and days. Apply Absorbine, Jr. promptly. The magic bottle keeps the affected part limber—free from the stiffness that usually follows. It quickly reduces the swelling. If the skin is broken, Absorbine, Jr. also guards against infection. Welcome this double first aid—a safe antiseptic and a clean, powerful liniment—combined! In the medicine cabinet, it is al- ways ready for emergencies. At all druggists’, $1.25, or postpaid Send for free trial bottle W. F. 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