TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 14 May 1938, Page 10

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT, i

By

HOLLOWAY HORN.

(Author of “George,” “That Man at Claverton Mansions,” etc.)

CHAPTER Vll—Continued. “I suppose it does. Sooner or later I suppose someone will come along and marry you?” “Possibly. I received a proposal today.” “Oh?” “Yes. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know, although one is not supposed to talk about it.” “Gilroy?” She nodded: ‘He was turned down good and proper.’ “Of course. I asked you not to talk about him.” “In a sense I’m glad he asked me to marry him. It shows that he knows he made a mistake.”

“He bores me. Let’s get back to the motion before the house: what are you going to do with yourself.”

“I think I shall sell the house at Mossford.”

“I thought you would. So did Mrs Westerton.” “Did she?” “Yes. She said you would probably sell it.”

“Can you arrange it for me?” Mrs Skeggs won’t be sorry.” . “You’d better drop in at the office tomorrow. There will be papers to be signed.” “I can leave it to you, then?” “Yes.”

“Thank you. I want to go to Berlin and Russia. When I’ve been there I shall settle down.” “I doubt it. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go to these countries. You haven’t had enough of Germany?” “I rather want to see the Prussian in his lair.” “And the Bolshie in his?” “Yes.” “When are going to leave? And how long do you mean to stay there?” “Not long. And while I’m away I really must think of something to do. I can’t spend my life travelling. I don’t nlay golf or tennis —at least, not sufficient well to make them main things in my life. Indeed, when I come to think of it, there are very few things I can do.” “That sounds very like inferiority complex!” he smiled. “Perhaps.” “I may be on my farm sooner than I intended. My partners are quite willing to buy me put. They have each of them sons coming into the profession.”

“You think you’d be happy there?” “I’m sure of it.” “That is the thing we are all striving for, isn’t it—happiness?” “All of us,” he said. “We spend our lives striving for it. And it’s one of those things you cannot get by striving.” “How does one get it?” she asked. “I haven’t found out . . . yet,” he said.

Ma,ry Rossiter had. taken a room in an excellent, if very German, hotel in Unter den Linden, and set out with an open mind to spend the few days she meant to stay in Berlin in an effort to form an opinion, to understand the people who had made so great a contribution to the civilisation they had nearly wrecked in the years •hat followed 1914.

She spoke the language without accent, and this, allied with her appearance, made people assume that she was a German . . or at least, a Bavarian. Her pale golden hair . and deep blue eyes were rather less noticeable in a German restaurant than they would have been in her own London.

The people she met, in many ways were different from the people of southern Germany. One saw far more frequently the typical Prussian head and face; one missed the dreaminess of the Black Forest.

And everywhere she found reticence. The Germans, perhaps the greatest arguers in the world, had become comparatively silent as if they were frightened of talking, frightened of who should hear them.

Staying at her hotel was a middleaged English author whose lectures she had attended in Cambridge.

The second evening she was there he took the chair next to her in the lounge: ‘‘Good evening,” he said. “Wh?re have we met?”

“At Cambridge,” she said. “I recognised you, Mi- Wilmot, at lunch time.” “I only noticed you. I never forget a face, never remember a name.” “I attended ycrur lectures on modern German writers.” “And you always sat at the end of the front row and never took notes.” “That is so,” she smiled.

“I think that is why I remember you. “What are you doing in Berlin?” “I wanted to see. it. I know southern Germany welY” “And what do you think of Berlin?’’ “I don't know .. . yet?” “Yes.”

“Good. I thought of going tonight to the big night club . . the Femina. I’m told one sees the modern gilded Germany there —as far as any of Germany is gilded.” “It’s a place I wanted to visit, but it's difficult for me, as a woman —and alone.” “Then join forces with me for tonight. I don't dance, but you will probably be asked to, and I shan’t mind if you do.” “Fifty-fifty, of •course,” she said.

“Fifty-fifty?” he repeated, doubtful

“I mean I shall pay my share of the expenses.” “Just as you like.” “Then I’ll meet you here at quarter past ten. In the meantime I’ve got an article to finish.” And with that he hoisted his large person on to its feet and ambled off. Mary Rossiter smiled. Ferdinand Wilmot might be brilliant, but he was hardly amusing, hardly the person with whom one would have visited the Femina. But the arrangements suited. She wanted to see the famous club, and could hardly go unaccompanied, and she suspected that the great author was equally hesitant over going there alone.

Punctually hour he had mentioned she came down into the vestibule. Under a fur coat Mrs Westerton had given to her, she was wearing a neat little black frock she had brought in Paris and was quietly confident that she would not be the worst dressed woman at the Femina.

There was, however, no sign of Ferdinand Wilmot.

She sat down and waited. Wilmot, she knew, was not an ordinary man, but it would be annoying if he had completely forgotten the appointment.

CHAPTER VIII. Just before the half-hour Professor Wilmot came down the stairs. He was wearing a dinner jacket which only a distinguished man would dare to have worn; his tie showed a regrettable tendency to meet his left ear. He was carrying a brown coat. To be quite frank he looked more like a waiter in a second class restaurant than a well-known author about to take an attractive young woman to a smart night resort. “Am I late?” he asked. “My wretched watch stopped.” He talked all the way about the contribution the Jews had made to German culture and art. It was very interesting but she secretly hoped that he would dry up when they reached the club.

She was rather surprised to discover that he was not only expected but treated with exceptional deference. An official, who was apparently the manager of the place, met their taxi and conducted them to the table on the edge ..of the dancing floor, which had been reserved for them.

“What about some caviare, dry biscuits and champagne?” he suggested to her.

He gave the order, “It will be German champagne,” he said. “But it is quite a drinkable wine and less heady than the other.”

She was looking about the place with interests. The dancers were, in the main, beautifully dressed and many of them were expert dancers.

One couple she noticed particularly. “That pair are professionals?” she asked Ferdinand Wilmot.

“Looks like it. Perfect creatures.” “What nationality do you think?” The great man glanced at them: "Any,” he said. “Or none. You meet he type in every cosmopolitan gathering in the world. Here, London, Paris, Buenos Aires . . it is the same.”

As he was speaking they passed within a yard of their table and the lovely lady spoke to her partner: “I ’hall feel like a bottle of stout when this is over,’ she said. English!

Ferdinand Wilmot smiled: “We’re a wonderful people,” he said. “Who would have taken her for English? I’m disappointed. Very few of the people here seem to me to be Ger-

man.” “Those are American,” she said, indicating a noisy crowd at the far side. The orchestra started again, a dreamy old-fashioned waltz. A German passing to his own table suddenly paused with an exclamation at theirs and, glancing up, Mary Rossiter found herself looking at Kurt Eidenmuller. “Well!” she said. He bowed to Wilmot, who had risen. “Lieutenant Eidenmuller . . Mr Ferdinand Wilmot,” she introduced them. “What an extraordinary thing,” Eidenmuller said. “I'm passing through Berlin and I meet you!” “Perhaps you will join us in a glass of wine, Lieutenant?” Wilmot suggested.

“I shall be delighted, sir. You are kind. But surely . . did I not attend your lectures at Cambridge?”

“You may have done.” “Indeed I did. You spoke about Goethe and Heine . . not that Heine was a German.” ‘‘A Jew?” Wilmot said, with a smile. “Exactly,” Eidenmuller said’ as he sat on the chair a waiter had brought for him. “But it is extraordinary meeting you again,” he went on to Mary. “I seem fated to meet this lady for an hour or so and then to go. It was so in Cambridge and in Freudenstadt and now here in Berlin.” “This is a lovely waltz they arc playing.” Wilmot said. “Alas, I do not dance, Lieutenant.” "If Miss Rossiter cared?” “I'm quite happy as a looker-on.” Wilmot smiled. "Well . . thank you,” said Mary and a moment later they were on the dance floor.

“I . . I hardly know what to say to vou!” he said. “Are you staying here long?” • “That's always a safe opening,” she smiled. "Bother!” The dance was at an end. “We'll dance the next one,’ she said. “But your partner?” “He doesn’t mind. Probably rather relieved at not having to talk to me. He is staying at my hotel.” “Then we will. You make every other woman here appear faded.” “Bosh!” “I moan it.” “You are not in uniform?” “No. We do not come to these places in uniform . . just now. Will you lunch with me tomorrow? In the evening I return to Munich.” "If you wish. I'm staying at the Hotel Reichshof.” "Then I'll call for you at half-past twelve, if I may.” She nodded. When they returned to Wilmot's ♦nb]e they found that distinguished "cntlemnn cheerfullv awaiting them: "Keep on. if you want to.” he said. "But Lieutenant Eidenmuller doubtless has his friends waiting for him.” said Mary. “Not at all. I'm here with two of my fellow officers. They don’t matter." he assured her. "I don’t like leaving you, Mi- Wilmot.” said Mary. Wilmot smiled: "Dance.” he said. “I like watching you." And for an hour they danced together. He danced perfectly, and made love to her in his shy,, fascinating way. (To be Continued).