Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1950)

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Win Cosh, Cars, Homes, Trips and other prizes, as our Students are. Write today for FREE BULLETIN! I M 100 SHEPHERD SCHOOL 1015 Chestnut St., Dept. E Philadelphia 7, Penna. WIN WIN WIN thing inside me twisted. Would I ever mean that to anyone in the world? Would anyone ever mean that to me? Or was it too late for me now — too late for anything but second-best things like drinking too much and dancing too much and flirting merely for the sake of having a man around, any man . . . ? A bitter shadow must have reflected in my face. Bill said gravely, "I have no problems, nothing to talk about. It's you who — tell me," he interrupted himself abruptly. "How did you ever come to marry this guy if it was such a waste of time? What did he mean to you?" "Neil?" I shrugged, and poured my self another demi-tasse of strong black coffee. "Who knows why people like me do the stupid things we do? Neil was a little richer and a little betterlooking than the three other men who wanted to marry me at the time. And then — " I caught myself up, biting my lips. Neil's biggest recommendation wasn't the kind of thing I could tell Bill Roberts about. I couldn't explain, could I, that what had made him desirable was the fact that I had to work a little to get him? It was all around town that he and Sylvie Cameron were pretty serious about each other when I decided he might be fun. It had been fun, too, cutting Sylvia out. Lithe, blonde and sharp-witted, she had put up quite a battle before Neil's emerald found its way to my left hand and she had to admit failure. In the next two years I had plenty of time to wonder why I had bothered. Our marriage was nothing, an emptiness enclosed in the beautifully-decorated apartment Dad bought us for a wedding present. On the whole I'd been relieved when it became obvious that Neil was drifting back toward Sylvie. The only bad thing had been Reno itself, and the sudden shattering fear that I might grow to become one of those beaten, aging women. Women who had failed at the business of being women, of having husbands, families, of being cherished. I looked miserably at Bill. "It's coming back," I said childishly. "Oh, Bill, say something cheerful. I want to look ahead, not backward!" His hand shot forward and closed hard over mine. "I'm a fool. I should have taken you some place where there was music, and dancing. This is too quiet." His hand over mine on the table seemed suddenly the only thing in the room. I stared at it, shaking my head. "No, this was perfect. Quite . . . perfect." Music. Dancing. Teasingly into my mind came a picture of myself dancing with Bill. What would it be like, having his arms around me, his thin cheek above mine, his mouth so close? Startled at the vividness of the image, I tried to withdraw my hand. There was a tremor in it; I couldn't tell if it was my hand that was trembling, or Bill's. His fingers tightened, as if of their own volition, and then abruptly released mine. When I met his eyes, I saw that a queerly clouded, bewildered look had come into them, and color had crept up along his cheekbones. For a minute I couldn't think of anything to say. Alberto, the proprietor, coming by just then, released us both from tongue-tied paralysis. "Everything was all right, Mr. Roberts, Madame?" His bright, dark eyes nicked me with an oddly understanding glance. "The lasagna, the coffee?" Bill said heartily — a trifle too heartily— "Perfect as always, Alberto. By the way, Madame is Mrs. Weatherby. Be very nice to her whenever she comes, won't you — she's a special friend." "But of course." Alberto howed. "For a friend of Mr. Roberts there is always the best in the house. And for a lady so lovely, there is even better." Bill's eyes came back to me, with a look in them that sent an unexpected flare of triumph through me. "Yes," he said, not even noticing that Alberto had already bowed himself away. "Yes — she is lovely, isn't she?" Later, as I sat brushing my hair before the mirror in my room at the hotel, I tried to recall what Bill and I had talked about. Something, for example, to repeat to Dad when I told him — as I meant to — that I thought Bill Roberts was one of the brightest young men he'd ever discovered. But all I could remember was that halting, puzzled tribute, words that seemed to have come from another man than the one who had been sitting with me, before they were spoken. Those words, and that meeting of hands. I put down the brush and stared at myself in the mirror. How much had he realized of what was going on in that moment? Did he know what had happened? No . . . not if I knew men. Men had the most irritating blindness, sometimes— when they didn't want to see! I thought of how he'd pulled himself together, regained his casually friendly tone, and put me in my taxi afterward with the most comradely of goodbyes. And he believed it — believed that the two people who left Alberto's were the same two people who'd gone in a couple of hours earlier. Why deny it — that in one instant we had been transformed from two friendly, interested WATCH FOR THE vicious criminal described on the "True Detective Mysteries" radio program Sunday afternoon. $1000 REWARD is offered for information leading to his arrest. For complete details, and for an exciting halfhour of action and suspense, tune in "TRUE DETECTIVE MYSTERIES" Every Sunday afternoon on 502 Mutual radio stations