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MOTION PICTURE
the hall, and paused before the tall grandfather’s clock. The hands pointed to five minutes past nine. In spite of herself, the Flirt turned a little pale.
“The silly boy!” she murmured. “1 suppose he’ll be around tomorrow, as tiresome as ever. They all say they will kill themselves, but they never do.” She spread out a pink, dimpling hand. “They all want to put a ring, like a ‘Keep Off the Grass’ sign, on you.” she smiled; “but you’re still
curious world. No lights from houses or motors twinkled in the misty halfdusk ; no noises reached her across the lavender twilight. She seemed to move thru a soft haze that widened at length into a field, rolling toward the pale horizon’s farthest stars. In the center of the field a dim figure rose to meet her — austere, whitebearded, wise with all the years.
“Oh, Father Time!” moaned the Flirt. “It is ten o’clock — hark! You can hear the city clocks striking now !
she shuddered. “He said if I would not — love him — he would — die. Oh, Father Time ! he is too fine and good
and worthy a man to die ”
“And do you love this youth, my child?” asked the old man, solemnly. “Is it your love would save him?” “I do not know,” the Flirt stammered. “I love to be loved. I love to have men speak of love to me and to feel their hearts quivering in my hands. I love to know I am beautiful and to read my beauty reflected in
’
“PIT IT YOl.'R SCYTHE AND TURN BACK THE HANDS AN HOUR, FATHER TIME ! ” MOANED THE FLIRT
free, and they get over it and go away and marry their childhood friends. Still — they didn’t any of them have his chin ”
She flung herself into a deep chair and closed her eyes. “I’ll just sit here till it’s ten o’clock,” she thought, “and then I’ll call up Ralph and laugh at him ”
“But it cant be ten yet,” she gasped, sitting up suddenly, with the crash of the strokes in her ears. “Why, I only just sat down here! Oh ! ft is, it is\ What shall I do?”
She drifted to feet that seemed to carry her along without her volition, out of the house into the dimness of a
And it must not be ten — it must not! Put up your scythe and turn back the hands an hour, Father Time!”
The stern face turned upon her an awfful look. “And why, my child, should I stop the world’s spinning for you?” he asked. “A thousand souls are to be born this hour. Would you keep them awaiting your whim ? A hundred suffering bodies are to find peace when yonder clocks have ceased their pealing. Would you deny them the awful boon of death? Say why I should check the machinery of God for such as you.”
The Flirt cringed and held out two white hands frail as moon-flowers.
“lie said — he would die at — ten,”
men’s eyes. But I think that I do not want to love any one myself. Father Time.”
She covered her face from the frown on his reverent brow. Then she felt her wrist seized in a firm hold.
“Come with me, child,” said Father Time. “In the Garden of Love souls grow sometimes. Perhaps we shall find one for you there.”
They passed thru a portal all hung about with crimson passion-vine and roses red as blood and muskybreathed, and stood in a fair gardenclose. Before the eyes of the Flirt reared a black cave and two strange, savage figures struggling by the body of a woman stretched along the
( Fourteen)