Atlanta Daily World

LOVE'S INTERLUDE by CHRISTIE MAY

Tarry lavishly drove her in a taxi to the pier. Tarry had bought a spray of hibiscus to match her bright pink gown. She wore it, vividly, in her hair.

Using all her skill, she had worked on her face, neck, shoulders, arms with dazzling effect. She had not stinted in exotic combinations of silvery eye-shadow, flame rouge and coral lipstick.

Evelyn had insisted on affixing a new set of superimposed eye-lashes on her upper lids, sweepingly long and upcurled. They were the final touch on a new personality. She would be daring as the rest tonight.

From their arrival aboard, it was a whirl.

The Cuban orchestra swished their seed gourds to enchanting music, as the water swished against the sides of the steamer.

Refreshments were ample and continuous. At one end of the long saloon, attentive stewards presided over buffet tables that fairly groaned under the weight of good things to eat.

Pheasant en casserole, piping hot. Strasbourg foie gras. Plovers' eggs. Quail in aspic.

There was crabmeat au gratin. Breast of guinea hen Eugenie. Cognac flaming over silver platters of crepes Suzette.

Salads and mousses. The silver mesh of wine coolers. Champagne galore.

And from four in the morning onwards, there would be beefsteak-and-kidney breakfast, in the English manner, with bacon and eggs for the untraveled, and good American coffee. (They would need it.)

There were two bars above, one amidship, one towards the stern. In the first (named Sloppy Joe's) one drank planters' punch and daiquiris—at a price. Two kinds! The Ritz Bar was equally expensive, but in the sweet cause of charity, what did one care?

The ultra-fashionables were out to enjoy themselves. There were ranking professional celebrities and the international crowd. "Café Society" a-plenty. Women of iridescent beauty. Bemonocled male titles. Gigolos. Demi-mondaines. Dowagers out for a fling, with paid escorts. The conglomeration of the nightclubs in full force.

Ruth had been out to sell her tickets to anyone who had the price. And she had succeeded.

Moira's exhibition rhumba with Tarry was a knock-out. The ship's rafters rang with applause.

She had had a planters' punch with Randall in the bar beforehand "to get into the Cuban spirit," as he urged her. Then another. In plenty of men circled about her.

She thought: "The new personality working!"

She had five supper-partners. One was a well-known actor. Two rich Society bachelors. A popular song-writer. And a gossip columnist.

Over two magnums of champagne, they had a grand time—or so it seemed.

She was conscious of Amanda's eyes upon her with an envious light. Thought: "Serves her right!" It was getting even.

The columnist wanted to know where she had been hiding all this time? He'd been missing something.

"Orchidaceous girl!" clubman murmured.

The actor asked if she wouldn't like to go on the stage?

They danced, afterwards. Heady music. That maddening swish of the gourds!

If only Rodney Stone would come and claim her...

Out on the deck, Ruth Albion sat with Dr. Rodney Stone. He said: "You've had enough to drink, Ruth. Promise—no more?"

"As though you care—"

"I do. I hate to see you make a monkey of yourself. Fun's fun, but there are limits."

"You don't give a hoot about me," she repeated, obstinately.

"Rodney. I dare you to kiss me."

"I'll spank you instead!"

"Oh, can the Big Brother stuff!
You know I'm mad about you, Rodney. And you treat me like dirt!"

"Nonsense! Aren't we good friends?"

"That wishy-washy stuff! Poof! You've got ice instead of a heart! You're a stuffed shirt—no more!"

"Quiet! There are people around."

"As though I care! This is my party! I've a right to speak my mind! I want you! Father would love it! I want you for keeps, Rodney!"

To his embarrassed relief, he saw Dr. Albion approach them. He rose.

"If you and Ruth will excuse me, sir. I've been foolish enough to promise to sing in the saloon."

"I'll play your accompaniment," Ruth cried, jumping up.

"No. Stay with me." Her usually indulgent parent noticed her condition—or at least suspected it and was annoyed.

But Ruth was after the younger man like a shot, ousted the pianist from the orchestra, and broke into the strains of "The Last Round-Up."

She was a fine performer. The orchestra made a running obligato. The doctor sang. He had a splendid baritone voice.

Moira was dancing to the music with her actor. They made a noticeably handsome couple in the crowd. They stood out.

As he sang, she yearned. For happiness. Security. Peace. Love. A home.

The melody of his singing swept her, his magnetic force.

With all her mind and heart, she willed that he would come to her after that song.

She maneuvered that she and her partner were directly in front of him as he stood on the low platform as the last note died.

Their eyes met. Hers drew, invited. They were luminous and beautiful. His blue gaze seemed stern.

Then he stepped down towards her as the dancers applauded, and the orchestra repeated the tune.

Ruth could not leave the piano under the circumstances. But he had forgotten Ruth. He was impelled towards Moira. He cut in.

They were swept off on the now packed floor. She was yielding, pliant in his arms.

Two selves struggled within him. The one that had condemned her in the inn. The one that wanted the glory of her arms, her femininity, her warmth.

What did it matter what she had done? She was lovely, desirable...

Her lashes swept his cheek. He felt the perfume of her hair.

He was a man—yet a machine too long—and she a woman, exquisite, appealing to the senses.

He whispered: "Let's get out of here."

They were near the companionway. Easy to slip out. There was that secluded shelter near the stern.

"I'll get your wrap. I noticed it as you came aboard. Wait for me by the bar aft, Miss Moira." He was actually pleading with her. "I'll be with you directly."

Her heart thudded as she waited. She knew he was desperately attracted now.

She hid, for fear of interruption, until he appeared. He had his coat over his evening clothes. He slipped her wrap about her shoulders that the gown nakedly revealed, put a strong hand under her elbow and piloted her out.

It was cold, but windless. There was a moon.

The music of the orchestra was like a banshee's wail. It had become weird.

"Voodoo! Black magic!" she said nervously.

"And you've cast a spell upon me," Rodney told her in a low voice.

They had reached the shelter. He drew her into his arms.

It was heaven.

Nothing mattered but his kisses—his wonderful kisses—this nearness—the hard feel of his arms. It was like being caught up on wings of rapture. The evening wrap fell from her shoulders as she reached up and clasped her two hands at the back of his collar.

Long, clinging kisses—his coat covering both of them, delicious of haven. Time stopped. The spheres danced fire and sang. This oneness! Madness! A divine ecstasy! It seemed all her life long she'd been waiting for this one moment... He rained kisses on her shoulders, on her throat, her hair.

Was this the quiet and self-contained young doctor? Not a word was spoken. Words were unnecessary.

How long they had stood there in each other's arms, Moira was to wonder afterwards, looking back on that mad dream. For the sharp tap-tap of high heels approaching their shelter—to swing round, to see Amanda hurrying towards them.

"Rodney! Are you there? You're wanted. Ruth's making a terrible spectacle of herself in the saloon. She's doing a voodoo dance to that music. We can't stop her. You're the only one who can manage her. For heaven's sake, come!" She grabbed her brother by the arm. She ignored Moira. When he made a move as though to include her, she said sharply: "No! Come by yourself!"

Moira said quietly: "I'll wait here."

They were gone.

A long deck chair was in the shelter. Her knees felt weak. Delicious lassitude enveloped her. She wrapped her cloak about her. Lay back.

It was as though the whole pattern of her life had been transformed. The glory of his kisses. He had meant them, just as she had meant them. Divine revelation! Love!

Her body tingled, and her heart sang paeans.

Soon he would return. Not Ruth, not anybody, could keep him from her now, she was assured.... The moments sped. She lay there, bathed in happiness, her eyes closed. Would he open them with a kiss? Footsteps were coming. Light, rapid footsteps. Not Rodney's? A woman's voice, muttering hysterically. A high, sobbing laugh. Moira jerked up as Ruth Albion ran aft. She was alone.

There was a high coil of rope. It happened like a flash—the slender figure silhouetted in the moonlight—poised on the stern rail—disappeared!

Moira leapt to her feet, hurled her cloak off, tore at the zipper of her gown that fastened it from bosom to hem. Raced to the stern, shouting at the top of her voice: "Girl overboard!" There was a sailor near. He rushed to the alarm bell. Moira did not hesitate.

That head bobbing in the ship's wake! She'd get to it in time if she instantly dived! ... Gown gone now. Shorts, brassière and stockings her only garb up the quick, icy dive! ... Whirling darkness, heart pounding... water roaring... then the moonlight, blessedly! ... She swam with all her strength. Ruth! Ruth!

That dark blob of a head... was it gone?

Ruth was in long, clinging velvet. Couldn't swim like that, could she? Hurry! Hurry!

Voices yelling from the steamer. Engines reversing. Swinging the boat round.

Dark head nearer in the churning wake! Double one's efforts! Get to her! Save her!

Only a few more yards now! "Steady, Ruth! Steady!" Moira reached her, grabbed her. Ruth fought... Then the struggle was over. Ruth's body went limp.

Would help never come? Was this the end of all things? Her brief hour of happiness forever passed?

The life-line flung... caught. Strong arms swimming towards them. Someone taking Ruth from her. Someone else carrying her up a ladder at the side of the ship. (To be continued)

Copyright by Mary Christie. Distributed by B.C. Features Syndicate, Inc.