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SYNOPSIS
THE CHARACTERS:
EMJIENXR SEYMOUR, rich, young
iiui I'cautiful.
NICKY PARTLETT. wealthy and in
| ( ,v With Eabiennc.
t ,sn'.Rl'AY: Gertrude, Fabienne’s
i,mother. is distraught when
Vie 1. arns that Grandfather Eliliu
\Yiii' mghby leaves his entire fortune
to charity.
CHAPTER TWO
••PERFECT entrance,” Fabienne
whispet va! to no one in particular
when Nicky Bartlett came into the
drawing room.
His smile, beneath his neat mus
■ u he. was a blend of anticipation
a-ul realized pleasure. His eyes in
t ; :u ied all of them as lie went di
rectly to Gertrude de Ligne and
bent over her hand. Rising, he
spoke to Edna Willoughby, gave his
hand to Mark and then to Dick and
came to stand beside Fabienne, as
if that were his place.
She said “Hi, feller, bow’d you
know this was the psychological
moment to arrive?”
He snapped open a paper-thin
gold cigarette ease and held it out
to her. "Something exciting going
on ?”
Fabienne took a long time over
lighting her cigaret from his light
er. Then she blew a straight
smoky column before she answered:
“We’ve been cut off without a
sou. Or haven’t you read the pa
pers today?” *
“Oh, THAT.” Yes, Nicky did
things well. Nicky did things in the
good taste that Gertrude talked so
much about, without always being
quite sure of what she meant. Ger
trude often got form mixed up
with taste.
"We can’t believe it, Nicky,” Ger
trude said pathetically.
“Should I offer condolences?”
His question was for Gertrude, but
his glance was to Fabienne.
"Not at all.” she answered be
fore her mother could speak.
"We’re all going to make some
thing of ourselves. A nice fresh
start with no filthy lucre to tie us
down. We’re going to work. Dick
and me.”
“Isn’t she droll, Nicky? Darling,
it’s gettingon toward seven. Hadn’t
you better dress for dinner?”
“Why, mother! Poor folk don’t
dress for dinner. However, I’ll get
cleaned up. Played some good ten
nis today, Nicky, with Sue Auchin
closs.” Fabienne aimed neatly at
hearth with her cigaret and
made it. “I’ll put on something
dance-ish if you’ll take me to the
Petite Taborine tonight, Nicky.” |
“Last flare before she becomes
one of the working masses,” Dick
explained.
"She’s not serious about work
ing, is she?” Nicky wanted to
know after Fabienne had left the
room.
“Os course not. She’s piqued with
me because I’m solicitous about
her. I want her to get married,
Nicky, and I know she wants to.
I think the child’s romantic. I think
she wants to be swept off her feat.”
Gertrude paused for a moment and
then abruptly said something about
that day’s polo. She hoped that
Nicky had taken the hint she had
put rather baldly.
After all, it was time that Nicky
stopped allowing Fabienne to twist
him around her finger. He had been
courting Fabienne for—Gertrude
calculated hastily—twelve years.
Ever since the summer she had
taken the child to Maryland to visit
her dead father’s parents. They
were only twelve and sixteen then,
but already Nicky had been brow
beaten by her own willful daughter.
Marcus came in with a tray of
cocktails.
“Nicky, do you know the Pro
chets? They gave a most amusing
party on Monday ...” Gertrude
chatted amiably as if she had not
scent the past seven hours in
storms of tears and anger. Now
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JJ |
Fabienne said to her brother, “Come and see me when I take a walk-up.*''
that Nicky was there everything
would be quite all right.
Yes, Nicky would know the
Prochets. He knew all the right
people, the right tailors, the most
dependable brokers, the rating of
every club worth while. To know
and do the right things was Nicky’s
whole life. He had never done a
day’s work in all his twenty-eight
years. But there had been no need
of it; he was the heir to the Bart
lett tobacco millions.
Fabienne was a fool not to grab
him. “My daughter, Mrs. Nicholas
Bartlett,” the Countesse de Ligne
would say in the drawing rooms of
London and Paris that still knew
her.
Fabienne came in wearing some
thing sleek in ice-blue satin that
made her look a head taller than
Nicky.
“Doesn’t she look sweet?” her
mother said fondly.
“An awfully good buy, Nicky.
Reduced today,” Fabienne said,
and her voice took on a hard edge
that was like the hard light in her
eyes earlier.
“Cocktail, dear? We’ll have din
ner in a few minutes.”
“No, thanks. Nicky’s taking me
out to dinner.” She didn’t want to
stay another minute. She knew all
the things her mother would say
for Nicky’s benefit. Accumulated
anger gathered in her breast.
She said goodby to them all,
kissed her uncle and aunt and said
to her brother, “Give my best to
John Harvard and come and see me
when I take a walk-up.”
Nicky had a car that was, as one
might suppose, long and sleek and
as expensive as possible. Which
was hardly the basis of any objec
tion to Fabienne Seymour who pre
ferred the luxurious.
Fabienne belonged in that car,
she thought approvingly. She
looked the part. Her slippers had
cost thirty dollars; her gown, sim
ple and arresting as an exclama
tion point, was a French original
and her short jacket of perfectly
matched sables had been last year’s
Christmas present to herself from
herself with love.
Nicky looked as if he belonged
in that car, too. But then Nicky al
ways looked right—at the tiller of
his sailboat, in bis pink coat at the
Hunt Breakfast, riding steeple
chase, playing fast polo, flying his
speed plane.
She could have this car, and a
town car, and a plane of her own
if she wished She’d always look
right amid the possessions that
Nicky could give her, and Nicky
was waiting for her to say that
she’d take them —and him.
Why didn’t she say it? Her
mother was right. There was noth
ing else for her but marriage. She’d
loathe working. Besides, what
could she do? She couldn’t sing in
a night club. She wouldn’t sell
things. She was utterly useless as
far as earning any money went.
And she’d have to have money.
Five hundred a month would be lit
tle better than nothing after Ger
trude closed the apartment and
went back to Paris. She’d have to
take on an apartment for herself.
Nicky said, “What’s all this
about ‘making something of your
self’?" *
“Oh, so you think it’s too amus
ing, do you?” She said it sharply,
her resentment against everything
finding its expression against luck
less Nicky.
“Ridiculous, not amusing,” he
corrected, unfortunately choosing
the one word that was a red flag
to her.
“Well, you know my views about
such things. We’ve discussed them
before—if you remember.”
He ducked as if her words were
blows. “Are you going to start that
line about my going to worK
again ? Because if you are, my good
girl, I’ll only bore you by saying
the same things over again. I’ve
got plenty of money and plenty of
time and plenty to do with both.
Would you want me to take a job
that some poor guy needs?” t
“Couldn’t you find a job to make
for yourself? Make something use- 1
ful of yourself instead of being a
... a playboy?”
“I might do social work,” he said
laughingly.
It was the way he laughed that
added fuel to the fire kindled by
her mother. It blazed, and suddenly
she thought she knew away to
make her mother know how deep
her resentment was.
The idea was born. Fabienne
gloated over it gleefully.
“Look, Nicky,” she said in a
tone that indicated her annoyance
with him was forgotten. “I’ve got
an idea playing around in the back
of my mind. I want to scars j
mother. Will you drive me down
to Willoughby house in the morn-j
ing?”
Fabienne little knew what a
sweeping tide that wavelet of ani
idea was to prove.
(To Be Continued)
HENDERSON, (N. C.) DAILY DISPATCH MONDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 19?,9
’ $!/J{arie Slizard
SYNOPSIS
’ THE CHARACTERS:
FABIENNE SEYMOUR, rich, young
and beautiful.
NICKY BARTLETT, wealthy and in
love with Fabienne.
YESTERDAY: Fabienne persuades
Nicky to drive her to Willoughby
house, the old Willoughby mansion
which her grandfather has left as a
settlement house.
CHAPTER THREE
MARCUS brought Fabiennt’s
tray in and laid it across her
knees. Annabelle slipped a cape
pale blue eiderdown across her
shoulders. Her mother’s maid, in
niaroon taffeta that was twin to
Annabelle’s, passed the door with
clothes draped over her arm.
Fabienne stretched deliciously
and said, “Somebody going some
place ?”
“Madame is having her trunks
packed, Miss Fabienne,” the butler
told her and removed the silver
tops of the breakfast dishes.
Fabienne inspected the dishes
hungrily. There were rosy melon
balls in ice, an egg with a fragrant
brown sauce still sizzling in a min
ute baking dish, tiny sweet rolls
toasted, and a pot of coffee.
There were also the morning
newspapers and two piles of mail.
Marcus poured coffee and went
out with the dish covers.
Fabienne settled back in her pil
lows and opened her mail. She gob
bled the melon balls while she read
the bills. Then she turned to the
invitations, the little notes with
foreign post-marks while she ate
the rest of her breakfast.
There wasn’t a crumb left when
she finished.
Sheer curtains, like lingerie pet
ticoats, billowed lazily in the
sunny, September breeze that
blew in her windows. In the room
beyond she could hear AnnabGle’s
movements as she prepared her
bath.
Oh, what a lovely morning, she
thought. For what? For golf? For
shopping? She ran through her
mail. Helene Carrington wanted
her to serve on a committee for
some sort of refugee work. Heav
ens, no!
Gertrude came to her door. “I’ve
decided to sail on the Normandie,
Fab. The Derwents are going to
take the apartment. Are you com
ing with me ? I do think you ought
to stay here. Edna and Mark would
like to have you, but of course—”
“I’ll let you know later, mother.
You really mean that you think I
ought to stay here until Nicky pro
poses again, don’t you?”
Nicky! She’d forgotten that she’d
told Nicky to call for her at eleven.
What for? Oh, yes, she was going
to make him drive her down to the
slums. To Henderson street to see
Willoughby house.
She regretted that impulse. To
waste a beautiful morning drive
down through the slums to appease
an anger she had completely for
gotten was silly.
Her mother’s exasperated voice
recalled her:
’’Fabienne Seymour, you’ve got
a disposition just like your . . .
your father. What are you going to
do today?”
Fabienne grinned. She looked
strangely like the old man then,
old Elihu. “Nicky and I are going
down to look over the family man
sion.”
“Oh, Fab!”
“Don’t worry. I won’t do any
thing but look it over.”
“What is there to see?”
That was what Nicky wanted to
know, too. Privately, Fabienne
agreed with both of them that the
expedition was a stupid one. There
were so many more pleasant things
to do on a bright September morn
ing. But perversity was a strong
trait in Miss Seymour and she was
persistent about driving down to
Henderson street.
“What is it anyway?” Nicky
plagued her.
‘lt’s a settlement house, darling.
Student Revolt Brings Gestapo to Czechs
Armed German Storm Troopers and German policemen occupied the Masaryk School and other univer
sities in Prague when students, boys and girls, demonstrated against the Nazis Top, is a recent student
demonstration in Bratislava. Below, is the Masaryk school, where shots were fired as the Nazis placed
1,200 students under arrest. _ (Central Press)
“I recognized you from your photographs,” said the other girl.
A place where children ana . . .
oh, I don’t know any more than
you. Only it is some kind of a
neighborhood club where earnest
young women teach people things
they don’t want to know. Grand
father Willoughby met some angel
of mercy—some completely impos
sible Good Woman—named Ellen
Chapman—who is supposed to be
a miracle worker in the cause of
charity. And she sold him on the
idea of lending the house to make
the Henderson Street Settlement
: ouse. Then, as you know, he left
Lie whole works to them as a me
r:?rial to his mother.”
Nicky chortled. “She must have
been some persuader. I thought the
old man loved that place.”
Fabienne said, “Humph!” She
settled down glumly.
“Ever see her?”
“Who? Chapman? No. But can’t
you see her? Nice broad bosom and
a lamp in her eyes. A spinster of
fifty mothering all the dear un
washed.”
Nicky turned the car off Sev
enth avenue and drove through a
maze of crooked crowded streets.
In an astonishingly short time
they had left the neighborhood of
neat apartments and now they
drove more slowly through knots
of screaming urchins who scam
pered through the streets. Bed
clothing hung from the window? of
the tenements that lined the nar
row streets and pushcarts forced
them to progress at a snail’s pace.
“Want to turn back?” Nicky
asked when they had narrowly
avoided running over a baby car
riage pushed into their path.
“When I slum, I slum. Push on,”
Fabienne answered, wrinkling her
nose with distaste for the smells
that assaultec it. “After all, this
is where he built his great mansion
for his mother sixty years ago.”
It was before them then. A mass
of gray stone, with neat curtains
in every wifidow. There were
patches of green grass between the
iron paling of the fence and the
building at the front. Back of it,
they could see a playground. The
sound of singing children’s voices
came from one of the opened up
stairs windows.
Over the fan-door that was open
there was a new plate. On it, WIL
LOUGHBY HOUSE was written in
black on a field of gold.
It was very clean and cool and
spacious, that house sitting there
in the midst of a city’s squalor.
“Well, there it is. Now do we
drive on?”
Fabienne was looking at the
house. “No, not yet. I think I’ll
look around.” She got out. “It
might be amusing. But you stay
here.”
Out of the open doorway, a slim,
dark girl dressed in navy blue, was
leading a file of children almost as
tall as-herself.
Fabienne walked to the foot of
the flight of steps and looked up
wards and in.
“Wouldn’t you like to go in?”
It was the dark girl who asked
her.
“I don’t think so. I was just
looking around.” She looked up at
the black-and-gold sign above her.
“We put it up this morning.” It
was the girl speaking again.
“Did you?” Fabienne said dis
tantly, aware of her stiffness, un
able to think of anything else to
say.
“And inside we have another, one
to which we are all devoted. It’s in
memory of your great-great grand
mother, who made all this possible,
Miss Seymour.”
“You seem to know me?” Fa
bienne said, turning a glance of
surprise on her guide.
The other girl smiled and nodded.
“I recognized you from your photo
graphs. Won’t you come inside and
let me show you?” Not waiting for
Fabienne to say she would, the girl
dismissed the children and went to
the door.
Fabienne did not want to go on.
She didn’t know how not to. She
said, “Thank you . . . but per
haps . . . some other day.”
Nicky was watching the little
play from back of the wheel a few
feet away.
Fabienne looked at him, hoping
he’d catch her cue and call to her
to hurry, but Nicky was grinning.
Nicky was tremendously amused!
For some strange reason, she felt
piqued.
She turned to the other girl with
a broad smile. “All right,” she said.
“Let’s go. This might have been
my house, you know. I’d like to
see it. I never have, Mis —”
“I’m glad to have the privilege
of showing it to you. May I intro
duce myself? My name is Ellen
Chapman.” She held out a small
hand that was surprisingly firm
and strong for such a slip of a
girl.
(To Be Continued)
PAGE SEVEN
Enter a Grandee
Jose Lazara
White-bearded and handsome, Jose
Lazara, said to be the wealthiest
man in Spain, is pictured on arrival
at New York, his first visit to the
United States. Senor Lazara is
said to have been the “angel” be
hind the revolt that made General
Francisco Franco master of Spain.
Wins Nobel Prize
■ ■
BSsljL •• ■ v ’ - f' *
I' * ' • ; lt f
S' / m : ■
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1 i
Dr. Ernest O. Lawrence
Dr. Ernest Orlando Lawrence, 38,
professor of physics at the Univer
sity of California, was awarded the
1939 Nobel prize for his work on the
structure of atoms and their trans
mutation. A native of Canton, Ohio,
he holds degrees from Universities
of South Dakota, Minnesota, Chi
cago and Yale.
David Niven
One of Hollywood’s brightest stars,
David Niven, who has played a
hero’s role in many a reel war, is
shown aboard the liner Rex as he
sailed from New York to do bis bit
for England in a real war.
(Centr'd Vress)
Nazi Victim?
?r ■ ■■■■ - ■ ■■ ■ ■■—7?
% "* ' '4
•y
Prince Frederick Wilhelm
The Kaiser’s favorite grandson,
Prince Frederick Wilhelm of Ger
many is reported a victim of the
Nazi purge of royalty whom they
blame for the Munich beer cellar
explosion. The Prince was known
as an international playboy, wai
once the swain of Barbara Hutton.