"The Success of Mark Wyngate,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 7 April 1927, Page 7

"The Success of Mark Wyngate,”

A CHARMING STORY OP DOMESTIC LOVE INTEREST,

BY UNA L. SILBERKAD. Author of “The Good Comrade,” “Des ire,” “Ordinarv People,” ete., etc,

He avus standing still opposite a picture, staring at ir intintly without seeing it; when he realised what he was doing lit' turned away eon fused. This marriage of theirs would not be quite like other marriages; it would be a contract for the .furtherance of mutual interests, mutual work—a covenant of partnership between them. Judith was a most reasonable, logical person; perhaps she would look at it in that light and not —nor mind. The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike twelve and stopped after seven strokes. -Mark started at the sound and remembered that lie had meant to wind it earlier In the evening. lie wound ,r now, then put the key in the drawer where it was kept and came back to his chair by the table: lie began to systematically arrange the future and its possibilities before him, and a life of equal comradeship spent with Judith in shared efforts and common interests presented itself pleasantly. All his thinking years had been ,o hard and cold and self-contained, ambition the only passion 'which had been able to thrive; this solution of the difficulty, with Its promise of close comradeship, somehow seemed attractive as well as aviso.

At that time lie did not distinguish between a comrade and a Avlfc; in all but brain he was a very undeveloped specimen of the human race. (J HA PTE R X 111.- < C 'KST L’AMOUR.” It Avas about the end of August when' Judith went back to town. Town is not beautiful .it the end of August. There is a stale and dissipated look about things, as of having been up all night and forgotten to wash in the morning. Most people of Importance are away then, and the 90.9 per cent, who are of no importance do not seem to be enjoying themselves. Judith’s friends and acquaintances belonged to the 99.9 per cent.: most of them had cither had their holidays or else wore going to have them in October, when nobody else wanted the time. Some were in trouble because the summer would be over before their holiday came, and the rest because their holiday Avas over before the summer was finished, and because, according to the custom of the bachelors, they had spent every penny they could beg or borrow’, and the few they had saved on their outing, and so were compelled to do penance on German sausagi and Aveak tea. “Not that it matters much,” so Ethel Gamlin said. “I don’t care what I have to eat.” And it was very evident she did not, though her friend Yera did. The latter young lady, having a healthy appetite and not the means to gratify it, resented Ethel’s indifferenee~ : b'Otti to lier food and her friend’s complaints.

invitation and came. She cast a onions, almost appreciative eye round the little bare attic; its extreme orderliness impressed her. “Ilow do you manage to keep your thing's like this.”’ she asked. Judith did not know; it came natural to her. ‘•1 wish it did to nay” Ethel said. “I believe, though, I should be a bit more decent if it were not for that Vera Price.” ‘•I thought you were friends,” Judith ventured. “Oh, so Ave are, only I m sick of her; she thinks of nothing but felloAVS and that sort of tiling. It’s a bit off,you knoAA*. ” Judith knew the accusation Avas not quite just, still she did not say so, and Ethel went on — “I’m rather sony I ever roomed-up here with Yera; I've only got myself a bad name.” “I’m sure you have not done that,” Judith protested. “You have never done anything to deserve it.” “No, not exactly, I suppose I haven’t; it isn’t altogether Avhat a girl does, you know. Some fellows don’t like girls living alone in toAvn; they don’t think It respectable or something.” Some sjubtle freemasonry must have lightened Judith’s eyes, for she suddenly kncAv that one “felloAV,” whose opinion was worth that of all others to Ethel, disapproved of Bachelors’’ Buildings.

“I don’t think men object to a girl living In London like this when it is necessary,” she said gently. “It wasn’t necessary,” Ethel replied. “Never was, that was rot; I came because I wanted to, and I’m sorry I did. I iiaA'eu’t saA'od a penny all this year, and I’m nicely in debt into the bargain. I’ve got into no end of idiotic racketing ways too. It’s all bunkum about wanting liberty and so on; I could have got all the rope I wanted at home. I'd go back, only they haven’t got room for me now, tilled the place up.” Judith Avas sympathetic, unexpectedly sympathetic, and she heard a good deal about Ethel’s troubles. Their nature, avas already indicated, but the chief of all seemed to be an undefined disapproval of her present way of living, the exact reason for which was not stated.

“Whatever has conic to you?” she exclaimed one evening, when her somewhat limited stock of patience was exhausted. “You're about as talkative as a deaf mute and as a jolly as a temperance tract!” “You talk such rot,” her friend explained with frankness. “I like that!” Vera retorted, though she did not look as if she did.

“Well, you do,” Ethel answered. “Nothing but grumbling about the grub or bragging of what you did at Brighton.” Vera bristled.

“Bragging!” she cried. “I’ve not bragged; every word I told you was true, 1 swear. I’ve not told you a single lie—there wasn’t any need—there was more than enough of the truth, as you ’d have known if you’d been there. You’re jealous because you haven’t had the time I had.” “Shouldn’t care to,” Ethel returned. “And what’s more, if I had had that sort of time I should have the decency to keep it to myself; I shouldn't brag about it as if it were something clever.” “You are mighty particular all of a sudden.” “Too particular to go on as you do.” “Since when?” Vera demanded, but did not wait for an answer. “If you are too particular for this company don't you hesitate to say so; if you feel too good to be with Vera Price don't mind mentioning it!” Possibly Ethel complied with the request; at all events there was a noisy interval between Vera’s remark and the banging of the door, when Ethel went out leaving her offended friend alone. After the banging of tho door Ethel stood for a few minutes on the landing, looking’ out of the window. She was standing there when Judith came upstairs.

“I’m going to turn over a new leaf,” Ethel said : -bruptly as site rose to go. “Yera can grin if she likes. I used to have a pretty good business head; I’m not going to fool my money away any more, and I’m not going biking with any fellow that asks me. I’m not so cheap as all that if Vera- Price Is. I say, I wish you hiked —we could go out together sometimes.” , -

There was a smell of washing about; it arose from the square courtyard where the porter's wife still stood among wash tubs. Some one had dropped a plum on the stair head and had trodden upon it, making a sickly-smel-ling smear. It was all rather dirty and sordid; even the setting sunligh was dingy, too tired and dirty to give any distinct lights and shadows. Ethel felt vaguely dissatisfied with herself and her surroundings. She had a pink bow at her neck and a blue one at her waist, neither was very clean; her dress wanted mending too: she wished it did not, or that she had thought to mend it, and the wish was somehow reflected on tho face she turned as Judith came up the stairs. Rather an aggressive face it was, perhaps even a little coarse, with a predominance of matter over mind, and the -look of one who is ready to lake care of herself. But Judith had seen all that before and she only noticed the new tentative expression in the eyes; it was that, perhaps which made her ask "Ethel to come up to her Toom. Ethel hesitated, then accepted the

“Ted Simpkins. Good-night,” and Ethel shot out of the room, not perceiving that she had given the friends only' one name between them. Judith smiled a little, but she never afterwards referred to the mistake.

Judith offered to walk with Ethel if that would do instead; then she rose too, thinking her visitor meant to go. But Ethel still lingered.

“You've only just come back, have you?” she asked. “You must have gone away the day I came home. Did you have a decent time?” “Yes,” Judith said simply. She did not attempt to explain the- nature of her enjoyment; she asked about Ethel’s holiday instead. “I went to Hastings,” Ethel told her. “Clara, one of mv sisters, got off at the same time, and we went- to gether with a girl, a friend of hers. A couple of fellows we know were staying at the same boarding house.” “That must have been jolly,” Judith said, and Ethel, not possessing a vivid imagintaion, was not amused by the picture of Judith under similar ‘ ‘jolly’ ’ circumstances. “Oh, it was ail right,” she said brusquely. Then, as the conversation dropped and Ethel still lingered, Judith asked the names of the friends.

Ethel paid her fairly frequent visits that autumn. During the visits she heard something- of the girl’s efforts to put her affairs on a business footing and to reform her behaviour and her room-mate; the latter, resented the process. Also on different occasions she heard a good deal of the ways and taste of a 1 “fellow 1 know.” There was another girl who sometimes visited Judith about this time. That was Muriel bow. She had been away with her relations all August and the greater part of September. When she came back she seemed quiet and subdued, at least so Mass Webster told Judith. (To be Continued).