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Trumpet Island
Told in story form trcjiii the Vitagraph photoplay
By OLIVE CAREW
Wi: live in a world of strangers. So near each other tliat arm touches arm, yet an invisible wall separates us from those who might be our friends, our patrons — perhaps our loves. Its name is Convention. Some braver souls dare to scale this wall, but for most of us it is a barrier impassable. Eye meets eye, quickening with a message from soul to soul, but the lips are silent, and we pass — .strangers.
Eve de Merincourt was thinking of a man, and it was not of the man whose engagement to her was to be announced that night. She did not know what his name was, indeed, or anything at all about him, save the important fact that he was tall and young, and that for one moment of springtide wonder he had gazed into her eyes thru the iron bars of the convent gate. Then Sister Marie, the pretty nun, had come quickly and hurried Eve away, but she had not scolded her, and her grey eyes, under the soft folds of her veil, had been misted with tears.
Six months ago. and she remembered him as tho she had seen him every day since, as ])erha])s she had. .\ thinnish young face, a trifle grim; thick, strongly growing hair and a way of walking like young Sir Galahad, he was the illustration of her secret girl-dreams. The fact that he had been .shabbily dressed she had not noticed at all. He might be, for all she knew, a butcher, boy, a poet or a tramp. What was the difiference to eighteen, so long as he was tall and strong and vibrantly a man ?
And now she was going to be married ! -She felt like one in a troubled dream when she thought of the jumbled whirl of events in the last two months, since her father had sent for her at the convent to meet the man he had chosen for her. Eve laughed aloud when she pictured Henri Caron as she had seen him that first night, fat. in spite of desperate corseting, scented, i)inkly bald, with red-rimmed little eyes that had yellow whites and looked at her in a way that made her feel ashamed and strangely naked.
"He's a horrid little sausage," she had written Hilda that night, "but he's rich, and daddy says we can have everything in the world we want. So I'm engaged. He kist my hand and put a ring on it, a diamond. It's lovelv, brighter than the altar with all the candies lighted, but the kiss was horrid. I shall slap him if he ever does it again. He has a beautiful face to slap . . ." Eve de Merincourt looked down at her diamond cloudily. It would be nice to be rich, for richness meant fur coats and pink silk underclothes and an automobile and breakfast in bed, and all the candy one
(Fifty-three)