"THE STREET ANGEL"

Waipa Post, Volume 42, Issue 3263, 21 February 1931, Page 2

"THE STREET ANGEL "

The Americans talk of a street angel as one who is equally known as a house devil— having a charming manner for the world at large and a nasty one for his home folks (says Charlotte Urquhart, in the Glasgow Weekly Herald). Such was John Dawson.

He was hail-fellow-well-met at the club, he was a Don Juan with all women, he petted strange children, and was amiable to lift men. Porters and waiters adored him, he tipped well—he said it paid him to do so—but in his home he was a lump of selfishness and shed his amiability with his overcoat as he entered. His wife, a long suffering creature, waited on him hand and foot and never got a word of thanks; his children he bullied, and he was mean, too. His money was kept for his pleasures, his clothes, his car. They had to be quiet for him, their friends bored him, he absorbed the house entirely on his entrance,-and he was always "injured."

"Why was his chair covered with other people's overcoats?" he wished to know. "Why were there never any matches in his study? Why salmon for dinner?"—he was sick of salmon.

"Why on earth ask the Browns for bridge, even if they had been so kind to Mary? Was that any reason he should play with a fool?" Etc. The wife was scared of him. He was cynical and she feared his biting wit. She never answered back, and she scarcely ever dared to see a friend or go out. As he disliked all her folks her family carefully rang up before arriving, and only came when John was out.

Her clothes were patched and dyed and mended till she could mend no more. He begrudged her money for clothes,, and would tell people "she was not interested in dress," as if it were a lacking desire or a foible. He went to the dearest tailor in town and looked very smart. If ever his wife or children complained he would sulk and be so utterly unpleasant that life wasn't worth living. He would invite his own pet friends and be a perfect host to them, the soul of the party, the best raconteur; but the minute they left he would be grousing over something that should have been arranged differently and be irritable as could be. Not one of his guests could have believed it—had they returned by accident and overheard.

That his girl ran off with a thirdrate dance teacher was only to be expected; her father made her life miserable, and she escaped with her first offer. The son went to sea, and the mother lost both children more completely than one could dream possible.

When the Street Angel died the papers were loud in his praise, and the flowers took three carriages to hold them. Ghastly to tell, however, his wife breathed freely at last, and in six months became nearly pretty again. Peace, and her friends being able to come and cheer her, and the lack of that absorbing egoist having to be studied, listened to, attended to, and waited on eternally, had changed her. She lived cheerfully, and eventually married again, and was happy. The Street Angel was one of Nature's born actors—a very nasty one. Probably the only wife who would have managed him was a beautiful bully, but he studied his own. comfort, and unconsciously or definitely chose one who would serve him with all her might and be subservient to him in every way.

I never met quite his kind before, and hope I never meet another again! Yet he had two women who loved him besides his wife—one much younger and one older-»-and in each

case he took and they gave. In neither case did he really love. They loved him and helped him, kept him in lovely cigars, scarves, ties, and books, and helped him in his business career, giving him wonderful trips abroad as their guest. He paid them by a little flattery and utter egotism. He used them, and he even scoffed at them to his friends—which is the perfect sign of a cad. His typewriter worshipped him also. An ugly creature, he paid badly, but, to have charmed so many, the man must have had something about him. One must give him that much credit. It is a wonderful fact that some women will always love a man whatever type he is. He had an easy flow of talk —a few jokes and a light manner—a laugh that seemed appreciative, but nothing else. He was neither deep nor possessed clever brains or knowledge, nor had he any real culture. This world gives and this world, takes. He took. Clever, if you like, but a cleverness we would not envy—a talent we cannot love or respect. He once declared that he got most things "by. caresses or tact." What exactly he meant by tact one cannot say.