The Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug 1913-Jan 1914)

This story is about a man and a girl and another man who didn't count, and a lot of other girls who didn't count either; so, reducing it to its lowest terms, the story is really about a man and a girl, which is, after all, the finest plot in the world. And right here, lest there be any misunderstanding, I will say it is going to be a love-story, and all disappointed, cynical, crabbed bachelors and spinsters who dont like moonlight or nonsense, and have no memory of kisses or blushes, had better not read what I am going to write ; but all young-of-body or young-of-soul folks, maids and grandmothers, with lovecolored lives, will, maybe, smile a bit, looking dreamily ahead or back, with the sure knowledge that is Wisdom and Understanding and Joy-in-Life. Robert Redwin was a poor, miserable, unfortunate multi-millionaire. His father, a perfectly working financial machine, who had invested his three-score and ten years with exceeding profit in the bank of Mammon, had left him, at eighteen, with the millstone of wealth about his young neck, and sycophants and flatterers about him instead of friends. Ten years later, the millstone was growing irksome, the flatterers discouraged. For Robert seemed in no hurry either to. play ducks and drakes with his millions, as a true sport is supposed to do, or to pick out a wife from the ready and-waiting group of charmers who had ambitions to translate some of his money into Paris hats and Doucet gowns. The mothers of eligible daughters felt the seriousness of the case ; their marketable commodities were beginning to show the tarnish of time ; yet, with the prize of the Redwin millions still unplucked, they dared not turn Mabelle or Maude over to lower bidders. So they redoubled 81 their arts and graces, their allurements and oglings; and the heart of Robert Redwin, beholding, was very sick. "If it weren't for the old shepirates egging them on, the girls wouldn't be so bad," he reflected morosely behind his best brand of society smile, as he glanced about the ballroom at ' ' one of the season 's most brilliant affairs," noting the eyes that were turned toward him, the perceptible preening and fluttering among the girls, like that of fragile, luminous-winged night-moths which perceive a sudden, bright light nearby. He knew, for he was an honestminded, clean-cut young fellow with a sense of humor, that if it had not been for the halo of his bank account above his head, he would have passed unnoticed in the crowd like a hundred other correctly groomed young blades. But he had small time for reflecting. A wave of passionate perfumes, sensuous fabrics, commercial charms engulfed him "Good-evening, Miss Merriman — I wondered why I came, and now I see ! Ah ! Miss Nesbitt, I was hoping you would be 'among those present'! Good-evening, Mrs. Van Linn and Miss Dolly and Miss Mabel. Do you know, it's hard for me to tell which of you is which. No, no, I never flatter. And here is Miss Hill, with, I hope, a space 'to let' on her dancecard ' ' The phrases fell from his tongue as meaninglessly as the patter of a parrot. He bowed and smiled, touched small, coy, gloved fingers, danced the formal waltz in preference to the intimate innovations of the season, with never a flutter of his heart, as warm bodies leant on his arms in the sway of the dance, as veiled eyes spoke silently to him, and their message was