Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1927)

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Dept.l311.I19W.57thSt..NewYorkClty I UR Peter's Wife [ < UNUNITED FROM PAGE 68 j "I don't see why you say that!" she protested. "Areyou getting tired of me — the least bit tired of me? — already?" "I? Tired of yon!" he exclaimed. "Are you?" HE was silent for some time. Finally he said: "You know me better than that, or don't know me at all." "Maybe I don't," she flung out unexpectedly. "Lydia!" "Oh, Peter . . . darling! Forgiveme! But I do want you so! I mean, like this. Close to me, close enough to touch and to be sure of. To be sure — of myself, too." "Sweetheart! Butthere'smyjob. I've got a practice, you know." "I know, I know. . . . And yet — we've both got this. And we've plenty of money, Peter. I've more than you have, but you've enough so that it really doesn't matter, even if you chose to be silly about it." "Oh," he said, laughing. "I shouldn't mind living on my wife's money. . . . I'm not narrow-minded in that direction." "Then I say: — Blessed be our combined incomes if they can guarantee us this happiness!" cried Lydia. " But they can't, and you know it. Look at our happiness fairly. What's it made of?" "Sugar and spice," she quoted, flippantly, but rather mournfully, too, "and all things nice." "You're a completely frivolous person — thank God ! " said Peter; and sitting up, drew her against his breast and kissed her. " I don't pretend to be wiser than you are, Baby. But I know one thing. We can't get anywhere by cheating. " "Cheating? You think it would be cheating to give up your precious career, for me?" "My career?" he returned, grinning down at her. "No, no! That's not fair. It's just work — hard work, good work — even exciting work at times. For instance when a lovely lady develops a sudden pain in her side — " "Her right side," said Lydia. "Then surely, " he went on, " that same lady ought to appreciate the necessity for surgeons of superior genius and discretion." PETER!" she cried suddenly. "I'm going to say something to you now that I'll never dare to say to you again. It's something pretty awful ... so please hold me tight. ... Oh! Not quite so . . . There! That's better." A brief pause; then: " It's this," said Lydia, "I love you, Peter. But I'm not sure that I can be faithful to you. I'm not sure that I can be faithful to anyone, or to anything. I'm frivolous and superficial and lazy and — Xo! Let me say it! — and weak. I am weak, Peter! I change, I'm a chameleon, I take on different colors, I blow with the wind . . . And I'm not being humble, or trying to belittle myself, when I tell you that. ... It's true. And it's awful. And I shouldn't blame you if you got up right now and left me forever, because if you don't I may hurt you terribly, and if you do," she ended, with a little gasp, a choking sob, "I'll die!" He held her close and kissed her. "Baby," he said; and a moment later: " I'm going back to New York tomorrow, just as I'd planned. And you're going to I stay here and have as good a time as you I feel like having. But you're my wife. Don't forget that. Because — well, as long as we're telling each other the truth this morning, I may as well admit that I take my marriage to you rather seriously, i And that's that." "I shan't have a good time!" she de I clared passionately. "I'll sit home and ' darnyourdearsocks. ... So please! Do leave me enough socks to last till September, Peter!" "You darling!" he shouted, to the un J impressionable pale blue sky. II AT Easter time they were still married, which was a cause for wonder among the prophets. But it was apparent to dear old Mrs. Dunham, who had moved out of her son's Park Avenue apartment when Lydia moved into it, that Peter's marriage was not exactly ideal. Mrs. Dunham was well-acquainted with the prophets; she swept in a majestic orbit through the drawing rooms of the upper East Side — (where all the modern prophets live) — and, to speak plainly, she heard things. And what she heard she reported, after due analysis, to Peter. His reply was almost invariably the same. "Yes, I know, mother. I know that Lydia's going around a lot. But, good Lord, I can't ask her to pass up a good party simply because I happen to have an operation scheduled for ten o'clock the next morning. Besides, it's all right. She'll get tired of this racket before long. " "It wouldn't be so bad," dear old Mrs. Dunham retorted on one sucl occasion, "if one didn't hear a man name mentioned. And always the sam man!" "Oh, come now, mother!" IT'S true. Gale Forrest is suppos to be madly in love with Lydia, and heaven knows he's with her enough. He turns up every place she goes. And people are beginning to seat them next each other at dinner parties. You know what that means. And the other day at the Deschart's I heard a dreadful allusion to 'Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-eater.' "Oh, no, mother!" "Yes, I did, too." Young Dr. Dunham looked furious. Then he looked grave. "Well." he said slowly, "maybe better have a little talk with Gale." "With Lydia, you mean?" "No, with Gale Forrest." "But you — you can't do that!" claimed his mother, horrified at thought. nertlsement in PHOTOPLAY MAGAZINE is guaranteed. l~