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The Most Romantic
. 0d
Spurr
THE most romantic moment of my life came after I was married — and it was not with my wife. You see, I was in love with my wife. In love with her in a very practical, workable way. Our love was a real thing — something strong and heavy, upon which one could lean. But romance was the smallest part of our love. I mean the thing we call "romance" — that intangible, gossamer, fragile spark that leaps up unexpectedly with a quick flame, only to flicker out at the first breath of reality . . .
I had fallen in love with the girl I was to marry while I was still very young. Our love developed in the most natural way.
e were a boy and a girl in a little Southern town — school-day sweethearts, engaged "folks," and then married in the accepted custom. In fact, there was nothing out of the ordinary at all about our love. We were just like many another young couple south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Hut my romance
was not ordinary. No true romance could
be anything but extraordinary — because there are so few of them in real life.
Their Meeting
MY romance started aboard a trans-Atlantic steamship. The girl's last name I never knew. And she never knew mine.
How we came to know one another has always been a
26
As Told Bj ]ohn Boles
To WALTER RAMSEY
puzzle to me. It seems to occur to me, though, that we were introduced to each other the second night out. I have a vague recollection of watching the captain lead a demure slip of a girl up to my table and leave her. He made some explanation to the efl^ect that her mother was indisposed — and would I take care of her.' That is^he best I can do with the beginning. It's all very hazy.
I can't remember what we ate or what we said at the table. I don't recall leaving the dinner salon or stepping out on deck. My story starts later in the evening, when I suddenly found myself wandering very slowly outside the dancing salon. Someone was tugging lightly at my arm. She was there.
That little tug on the arm was the beginning of my romance. From that moment, until the last glimpse I had of her under the new sticky green of the chestnut trees in Paris, I find every minute detail indelibly printed on my memory. I remember that she was a very naive, old-fashioned little lady.
It was his smile, perhaps, that attracted Marilynne — for it implies romance. Below, a romantic moment with Donal Blossom in one of his first pictures, "Bride of the Colorado"
nidi Jo
Her name was Marilynne — and she looked rather like her name: petite, auburn-haired, smiling and sweet. She must have been in her early teens, because although I was only twenty-two at the time, she seemed to regard me as quite a man.
After watching through the salon wi"ndows at thedanc