Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

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They are inlaid at the backs of bowls and handles of most used spoons and forks for more lasting beauty. HOLMES £ EDWARDS STERLING INLAID no finer SILVERPLATE than this Copyright 1942. Inlernolionol Silver Co., Holmel & Edwordi DM»ior,,Me'iden,Corin.lnConodo.TheT. Eoton Co., lid., "too.. U.S. Pol. OH 70 thing to write home about — " "Write home?" Steve asked quickly. "No," Linda said, "I'm not going to write home — I'd be too ashamed. They think I'm happy." "Well, you were happy," Steve said, "until you started to think about Agnes. That's the whole trouble — Agnes." "The whole trouble is you," Linda said. "I was happy until I discovered that you were so selfish that you didn't even know other people were alive. As long as everything goes your way, you're fine — you're a very charming young man. But as soon as you get crossed — as soon as you get disappointed— " Sobs choked her. QUICKLY, Steve put his arms around her. "Don't cry, darling," he begged. "I'm sorry — really sorry about the whole thing. Really. And everything you say about me is true — that is, everything except Agnes. I'm self-centered and thoughtless. I know it. But I promise to reform. I'll be different from now on. I promise. Don't cry, Linda. I love you. And I'll never hurt you again. I've just got a crazy streak in me. I guess you're right. I can't take disappointment, but I've got to learn to take it — and I need your help. I need your help in everything." His arms tightened about her. "You know that's true, don't you, Linda?" "I know a great many things I didn't know a year ago." She was still sobbing, but she didn't try to pull away from him. His contrition was thoroughly sincere, she knew; he didn't mean to hurt her, ever. The trouble was that, meaning to hurt her or not, he often did. "Oh, Steve . . ." she murmured. "If only — " The telephone's shrill clangor shattered this moment of half-surrender. Linda slipped from his arms and answered it. Steve saw her hurriedly dab at her eyes, heard her force gayety into her voice. "Dad! It's wonderful to hear you . . . You are? Oh, I'm so glad. We'll be dying to see you . . . Day after tomorrow? We'll meet you at Grand Central . . . How's Mother? . . . That's good . . . Yes, he's fine. He's right here . . ." When she hung up, she said quietly, "Dad's coming to New York for a few days on business." Steve, looking across the room at her, understood that the time for apologies and explanations — perhaps even the time for reconciliation — had passed. Whatever more might have been said between them had been silenced by the long-distance telephone call from Axminster. Their life together, for the next week, was a strange thing. On the surface, it had not changed. They spoke of casual things, made plans and carried them out. But underneath, there was a question. Steve was quiet and subdued with Linda's father when he arrived. He explained, quietly, what had happened to Jacoby's plans for the Symphony, and talked hopefully of getting it played next season. He had tried to reach the conductor by telephone, to apologize for his hasty action in demanding the return of the score, but Jacoby was out of town and not expected back for a few weeks. Very little seemed to escape George Emerson's watchful eyes as he sat in their little apartment. He listened carefully to everything that was said, and expressed no opinions. But Linda knew that he too saw past the orderly surface, to the unspoken question beneath. Her father asked Linda to go shopping with him one afternoon. He wanted to buy some presents for her mother and Holly. After their tour of the stores, instead of returning to the apartment on Washington Square, George Emerson insisted that Linda come up to his hotel room. "I'd like to talk to you," he said heavily. And Linda, although she knew what the subject of the conversation would be, could do nothing but obey. He began very carefully — for he had learned to be careful with his daughter when it was a question of Stephen Harper. Linda sat quietly listening while he talked about his family— of how much he loved them and wanted them to be happy — "And you have decided I'm not," Linda interrupted at that point. "Well, I — " he began in a placating tone, and then abruptly his mouth hardened. "It's been pretty obvious, the last few days, that you aren't," he said flatly. "You were crying when I spoke to you over the phone from Axminster. And all the time I've been with you — ever since I got to New York — you've been tense — on guard. You're trembling, right now." "Perhaps," Linda admitted. "That hole-in-the-wall you live in. How can you have a decent life there? And after all the excitement, that piece of music Steve's been working on so long didn't turn out to be anything at all." He frowned miserably and made a worried, unhappy gesture. Suddenly Linda felt very sorry for him. He was torturing himself, over her and her problems. And torturing himself needlessly, because although he was so acute in some ways, he was quite blind in others. As blind, she realized, as she herself. "Practically everything you've said is true, Dad," she told him. "But there's a great deal more that you haven't said, and it's true too. I've just begun to realize that myself, sitting here and listening to you talk. I haven't been happy — Steve and I haven't been happy — recently." "Well, then?" he interrupted, but she hurried on. WE'VE been perfectly miserable, a good deal of the time. But, other times, we've had more than just happiness. Our life together is — it's exciting, Dad. We have so many plans and dreams, and these plans and dreams belong to both of us. Some of them are bound to come true." There was rising excitement in Linda's voice, but her father only stared uncomprehendingly. "That's very pretty, and very inspiring," he said. "But I'm not entirely foolish, even if I am your old father. I can see you're on the defensive. You made a mistake when you married Harper, and now you're too proud to admit it. All you can do is hide behind fancy speeches." Linda could smile. "I don't mean them to be fancy. All I'm trying to do is tell you that I love Steve, and he loves me. And in spite of that, I know perfectly well that as the years go by he'll do things that will make me want to cry and I'll do things that will make him want to beat me. But it won't make the least bit of difference, ever, to the main RADIO AND TELEVISION MIBROR