“The PAINTED LILY”

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 80, Issue 250, 21 October 1937, Page 5

“The PAINTED LILY”

Romantic Serial Story - - by

Olive Wadsley

He bad been In New York for & week, and he had loved every second °f it. The solicitors had been very decent, very helpful, and he had written all the news to Vai, had done a few theatres, met—of all people under the sun—old Holly Carfax, the one man out of all heaven and earth he would have chosen to meet, and Holly and he had done the place together.

Holly was still In the one and only regiment, hut he was dashed poor, he was in hopes some girl who wasn’t would look at him, only she had to be pretty and young, and he had to be desperately in love with her. Ronnie had told him about Vai then, and Holly had listened and looked cmbarassed, and then blurted out: “But don’t you care for her—or she for you—at all ?” So Bonnie had explained all over again, but still Holly had been worried. “It’ll turh out all right,” Ronnie had promised him, laughing. “I couldn’t have done it,” Holly said simply, wagging his blonde ‘head, “seems so—so bloodless to me—because. after all, you are married to the girl, and to live side-by-side with someone you don’t care a hoot for . He was really upset. “No photo of her, have you I I s’posc you wouldn't have thought.” That was another disappointment. Ronnie told him: “Vai’s lovely, absolutely. Wait till you sne her.” “Makes it seem worse her being lovely, like you say, and you not caring,” Holly muttered. He seemed determined to he miserable about it. “Good Lord, man, there’s nothing between us at all; we’re Just pals. It’s an ideal state of things under the circs.,” Ronnie cried, gelling exasperated in his turn. Whereafter Holly spoke no more of Vai. On this blue and golden day he lunched with Ronnie at Sherry’s, and it was he who suddenly clutched Bonnie’s arm and said sharply; “Let's clear.” But it was too late. Iris had almost reached the table. She called to Ronnie in the voice he remembered so well, Its laziness, its sweetness, its charm: “Ronnie, dear—after such an age.”

•Holly beat it pretty soon. He had never liked the beautiful Mrs Warden, and, since what he called the “smash,” he had loather her.

So Iris and Ronnie went out into the sunshine together and talked of London, and the war, and Paris, and Charters (the Warden’s house was only ten miles away from It). Gloucestershire meets and London balls took place on Broadway as they talked and talked. And then with the little laugh (unforgettable, too!) Iris had said: “You aren’t at the Ritz-Carlton, Ronnie 1 How absurd. Because I am, too. I moved this morning!” They went home together then, and on the way Iris "adored” a fb'wor shop window, so, naturally, T file bought most of it for her, and lliey walked back laden with roses and lilies and violets and gardenias. ‘Where are you?” Iris asked, and when Ronnie told her, said: “I must Just peep at your room and leave you some flowers. I know you have none. Nico men never do, unless someone—elderly and kind,” she laughed straight into his eyes, an old friend, you know, arranges a few for them!” She seemed more anxious to arrange her hair and powder her face than do flowers for Ronnie when they reached the sitting-room. She stood before the mirror, inlet into the wall, and touched her hair with her white fingers, on one of which a square emerald blazed. “Heavens, I look tired,” she said. “The season was a tearing rush, Ronnie, and I haven’t recovered from it yet. Now you, coming from your wilds, look younger than ever, and awfully Ct and smart. . . .” It was the reference to his clothes the knowledge of the money question again, which awoke Ronnie to the fact he had never mentioned his marriage. Iris had finished powdering her face. She came slowly across the room to him and stood beside him.

“How d’you think I've worn, Ronnie?”

Ho had to look al her then, into her eyes, which were so like dark amber, at her hair, which he. had once told her was "night-dark.” She was indisputably lovely, a “finished” woman from the crown of her silken head to flic narrow sole of her foot, and she used the same old scent (Jasmine, or something; it was awfully faint, but you couldn’t get away from it). "You look Just the same as ever,” he told her. “Oh, my dear,” she paused, then added, her hand on his sleeve: “Ronnie, d’you know it's ten years—nearly?” He nodded, wishing in his own heart I-ris wouldn’t rake up things. It made him feel hot and uncomfortable—and he hadn't told her about Vai. She was speaking again: “It hasn’t been a happy time since we—since you went away.” Ronnie did make an effort then. Attempting a laugh: “Iris, this is all bunkum,” he said. “It’s sweet of you, my dear, to be so kind to me, but you know as well as J do that I didn't go away, I Jolly well was sent!” Iris swept up her lashes, and he saw there were tears in her eyes. “And you haven’t forgiven me?” “Of course I have,” Ronnie said instantly, eagerly, and he was Just going to tell her about his marriage when there was a stir of voices, steps. The door opened and Vai entered. Ronnie felt a bit as he had felt when he had ben preparing to go over the top: rather as if he might be sick, and awfully chill all over. Rut he went forward instantly and said: "Hullo, my dear, why ever didn’t you wire?” And Vai said, in a voice which was strident through anger and nervousness : "Guess I thought I’d surprise you —an’ I guess I havel” CHAPTER V. In the silence which followed Tris Warden gave a little lazy laugh, she said, laughter still rippling in hei spnpcli:

"Ronnie, aren't you going to introiucc us?” Before Ronnie bad time to speaK, Vai broke out in her clear, young “•Uli, I’ll do that. I’m Mrs Ronald ?dcnzies Sands,” and then walking • across 1o Bonnie, slipping a hand into ' Ills, slic added sweetly “You hadn t j been hiding me up, had you, Ron . i Iris Warden, laughing again, echoed. I “Had you—Ronnie?” | Ronnie, inwardly cursing, outwardI ly composed, said as lightly as he ! could. "Well, now Mrs Warden knows you, I Vai, you must know her. She's been 1 a pal of mine for years.” I "And I’ll bet a wad of dollars her I other name’s Iris, isn’t it?” \al answered. If Ronnie could have had a severe attack of unconsciousness at that moment, be would have welcomed it. He felt a fool, he felt furious, he felt a bit cheap, for he was honest enough to admit to himself that, though he really had forgotten about Vai when first Iris and lie had met, he had not, when he had remembered her, hurried to tell Iris of her existence. He thought with a sort of grim, bitter humour that this meeting, its absolute chance, was Just like a scene in a musical comedy. "Vai’s next remark did nothing to dissipate the discomfort of the situation. "Bin havin’ a sore of reunion celebration, haven’t you?” she drawled. "Complete with floral decorations!” Iris Warden said at once in her low, pretty voice: "Your husband very sweetly gave me the flowers, and I felt it was a shame I should have so many, and he none, so I told him I'd like to arrange a few for this room.” "Well, ain't w r e all got fun!” Vai exclaimed. She released Ronnie's hand. Sauntering to the window’, over one slim ’back shoulder, she said: "If you’ll ring for a maid, Ron, I’ll have her fix me a bath.” "Right,” Ronnie said. “I’ll move on,” Iris murmured. She began gathering up her Howers. Through a coral haze of roses, her face gleamed palely beautiful, a little fatigued, a little satiric; she held out a hand to Vai. “Good-bye, Mrs Sands, we must i lunch or something, when you can | spare the time. It’s been delightful I to meet Ronnie’s wife, a delightful— I surprise.” 1 “It was all of that, I guess,” Vai I answered, and the swift lovely colour I raced into her checks again. “Good- ! bye, Mrs Warden." Ronnie held the door, still feeling a I fool, painfully conscious of his inJ articulateness, and yet unable to find • anything to say. I "I was going to ask you to dance i to-night, the Randolphs have a show on,” Iris said, halting in the doorway, “I suppose you—still—wouldn’t care ■ to come.” i “Thanks very much,” Ronnie said, i "but I think, under the circumstances I • —Vai's in mourning, you see. . . .” I "Oh, so sorry,” Iris murmured. , “Well, anyway, we shall meet again : some time.” i She had definitely gone at last, and if Ronnie was conscious of rage, he was also definitely conscious of re- , lief. i Vai had flung herself into a big chair; Ronnie glanced at her —glanced away—he had not felt so angry for years, and he could not trust himself tn sneak.

He crossed to the bell and rang it. "What are you doing that for?” Vai asked. "I thought you wanted the chambermaid?” he said stiffly.

"Oil, that was all punk,” Vai confessed calmly. "I said that to make that Iris woman quit.” Ronnie let a bit of the iron control slip. "Look here,” he said as levelly as he could, “you mustn’t speak of Mrs Warden like that—and it's not usual to introduce yourself with all my names. The more usual form Is to say Mrs Sands if you must use your name at all.”

“You’re in a devil of a temper, aren't you?” Vai asked him blandly. “Well, maybe you’ve bad reason to get ratty; ’tis a hit steep someone walkin’ straight into a first-class mashing picnic—”

Ronnio flung round. “For heaven’s sake,” he said hotly, “try to speak decently— ’’ Vai sprung out of her chair with one lithe movement. Her hyacinth eyes were blazing blue fire, her short golden hair was ruflled. She looked lovely, childish, and perfectly wild with temper. “You and your ‘decent’ sluff,” she flamed. "Call it decent to hush up the fact you're married? Oh, I knew well enough you’d never told that dame about me; I'll go further, I’ll bet you haven’t tuld a soul here about me—”

“You'd lose your bet,” Ronald broke in frigidly, “however, go on.” “Oh, I’m going on,” Vai stormed, “you bet I am I I came here because I thought it—well, Tighter, to—l knew you wanted to settle tilings and get off to England, and you—you were kind at San Racos—and I felt I ought to have seen your point of view’. So 1 came along, and it’s a long Journey, and !■ was pretty well tired out. I came straight In here, where I’ve a right to come—to the only place 1 have a right to—and find you in a sori of bower of roses lookin’ into the eyes of a woman any fool could see wanted you to look into her eyes. An’ what do you do? Do you do the decent thing, you who’re so keen on it? Do you just hurry to welcome me an’ look after me? You do! I should say so! You just dashed at me, didn’t you, forgettin’ all about the roses and rapture business; All you did, if you’d like the truth, was a stand looking halfmad and half-vacant, and apparently struck dumb. D’you call that behaving decently? If you do, I hope I never learn to. Then, when you do End your speech, do I get handed that welcome decency should decree? I don’t think I All I get is some more frozen stare, and cheek from your lady friend, until I have to make her get out, and then she’s all for you meetln’ her later, right in front of me •—she—” ’(To be continued.)