[OUR SERIAL] A HOLIDAY ROMANCE

Waipukurau Press, Volume XXII, Issue 48, 27 October 1925, Page 6

[OUR SERIAL] A HOLIDAY ROMANCE

By

SYLVIA SMITH.

“That’s matey, and it’s my very own, I assure you, not grabbed out of the latest best seller.”

With a little blush Daicie told herself that he possessed an uncanny sense of reading thoughts. She did not know how eloquent -her face was, with its tell-tale flushings and palings.

“When we’ve finished this business of eating we’re going for a spin in my car,” he told her with decision. “You’re still pale, and a breath of air that is air will buck you up. But I shan’t be able to look at .you in the car; I.drive myself, you see.”

“I dont’ know that I want to be looked at,” she said with leaping pulses at the thought of the motor ride. “I’m dreadfully washed out.”

With a belated sense of appearances she fished out her little hand mirror and regarded herself with dissatisfaction. Gerald Gascoigne had a fleeting fear that she would spoil everything by dabbing powder bn her face and carmine on her lips, as so many girls had disillusioned him by doing in public. But Daicie patted a straying curl into order, touched her hat, and smiled as she caught the adimration in his eyes.

It was nice to be young and pretty and possessed of a flawless skin. She had hardly valued such possessions before, but since they made this man stare -at her so entrancedly they must be valuable assets.

“No coffee,” she said decidedly, her ice finished. “I agree with you, we don’t want to waste further time with food and drink. Though I have enjoyed myself, it can’t be nice to be so interested in dining out, but yo u see I’m not used to it.”

He handed her a gold-tipped cigarette.

“You don’t get much of a time, eh?” he asked her slowly. ”1 thought you didn’t. Your face has a hungry look; I don’t mean a food-hungry look, but as if' you were lonely. You won’t be that any more, for we’re going to be real pals, and I’m going to look after you. Weren’t you silly to run away? Don’t you know that when a girl runs away it makes a man run after her all the faster, thus defeating her own ends?”

“I don’t know what I think,” said Daicie, rising, “except that I amj)ehaving in an entirely shameful manner in allowing myself to bo ‘picked up’ in this way, but I don’t care. I’m not going to the high-principled heroine and do myself out of that motor run. It was the one thing I was longing for more than anything else, just a spin in a car with the wind blowing in my face and the fresh air all round. ’ ’ “You’re going to get it all right,” he said, ararnging the thick slik of his muffler in its correct folds. “Let me see, what’s the time? Just gone nine. We can -have an hour and a half’s spin; your people won’t think that too late, I suppose?”

“I have no people,” she told him. “I am my own mistress, with my own latchkey. ’' She showed it to him with a gay laugh. Already she was feeling the benefit of the good food and the wine and the charm of congenial company. She looked younger than ever in her gay spirits, and there was a childlike air about her that gave Gerald Gascoigne a pang of uneasiness for a second. He meant no harm, it is true; but on the other hand, he had no serious intentions towards her, and it dawned upon him that it would be wiser and kinder to leave her alone. The next minute the more cynical side of him mocked the fleeting Impulse. She was a girl who knew the world of men and women as they arc and not as some romantic damsels might view them. He was doing no harm in bringing joy and sunshine that every girl needs into her life. Besides, she was more charming than he had expected. Her companionship was pleasing to him, and whatever Gerald Gascoigne wanted in life he had taken. He telephoned for his car to be brought round, and it had duly arrived when they walked out into the street, a green painted, fawn upholstered affair that in its quietness was the height of good taste. That ride was the ending to Daicie of the most perfect evening of her life. They did not go far afield, having the lateness of the hour to consider, but running through Brixton and Croydon, reached the wooded beauty of the Addington Hills, silvered to unearthly beauty by a rising moon.

(To be Continued.)