Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1942)

WHO ARE YOU GOING TO usreN TO ? us? No. Don't listen to us now. Sure, we say Modess is softer . . . because we know it's softer. We make it that way. But don't listen to us now. Listen, instead, to the say-so of thousands of women who tested Modess for softness. 10.000 WOMBU UKB VOURSeLF? All over the country, these women were asked to feel two napkins and choose the softer. One was Modess — the other was the napkin they'd been buying. Yet 3 out of every 4 voted Modess softer!* PRAM/ YOQR. Om CONCLUSIOHS If 3 out of every 4 women voted against the napkin they'd been using, the napkin they voted /or must be worth looking into! Why don't you find out for yourself if 2/ou' we been missing out on extra comfort. Try Modess the next time you buy. HERES AN OFFeR It you don't agree with millions of Modess fans that it's softer, more comfortable than any napkin you've ever used, just return the package insert slip to The Personal Products Corporation, Milltown, N. .J., together with a letter stating your objections. We'll gladly refund your full purchase price. *Let us Kcnil you the full details of this amazing Softness Test. Write The Personal Products Corp., Milltown, N. J. 3 out of every 4 voted Mod softer THAN TMC NAPKIM THCVO BBBN BUYING Pronounce Modess to rhyme with "Oh Yes" he admitted, scuffing the ground with his feet as he walked. "There haven't been many clients. You know how people — feel — about divorce." "Oh," she almost whispered. "Oh, I'm sorry." "No need for you to be. I'm the one — " He frowned, and hurried on. "Probably I won't have to sell it. I only wanted to mention it to you. But if you feel badly about it — it's yours as much as mine." The sense of comradeship was gone now; they were awkward, ill-at-ease. Mary looked down at the ground. Under the pine-needles and dead leaves Joe had scuffed aside she saw a spray of tender green, crested with tiny white flowers. "Joe — look! It's arbutus — the first of the season, hiding under the pine-needles." He, too, was glad of the diversion. He bent and lifted the spray with a gentle finger, then pinched it off. "Here, Mary. To remember me by." "Joe!" In that moment she saw that he looked tired, that his clothes were the slightest bit shabby, and that his brown eyes were wistful. "To remember him by!" Yes, she needed a talisman to help her do that, because already the Joe she had spent so many years with was in the past. She had expected to feel a tug at her heart when she saw him again, after these months of separation. It hadn't come, and she'd been grateful. Now she thought it might never come. Love for him was still in her heart, but it was a different love. A pitying love — and how Joe would hate that! Impulsively, as she took the arbutus from him, she bent and picked another spray. "And I'll give you one, too." "Thank you," he said gravely. "I'll always keep it." Soon afterward, they returned to the car and drove back to town, talking of unimportant things. As he left her he asked, "What are your plans, Mary? Are you thinking of staying in Cedar Springs?" "I think," she said, "I'd I'ike to— for a while." "Good." She had the impression that the gayety of his smile was a little forced as he waved and drove away. There never was such a spring, everyone said. Day followed day in serene progression, punctuated only now and then by jus c the right amount of rain. Mary lived quietly, seeing a little of the Adamses, much of Annie, nothing of Joe and very little more of David Post. Not once did she see Sally Gibbons, but Margaret Adams told her the girl was living in an apartment downtown — presumably, since she did not work, an apartment paid for by Joe. Always, through the days, one thought kept Mary dubious company. I must keep my prom,ise to Joe. I m,ust give him, his divorce. For since he has not given her up, he must still want it. Then, on a warm evening, David came to see her. As he talked, quietly, putting forth facts in their order after the way of lawyers, she felt that he was telling her the plot of some story she had read long ago, in a dream. A tragic story, without grandeur. "And things have been getting worse and worse for him. I don't know the details — only that he was spending too much, and earning almost nothing. There were some securities he sold for a friend of his, on commission, but that money didn't last long. I tried to help him, but he wouldn't accept anything from me." "The girl?" Mary asked. "Sally Gibbons?" "I don't know what happened there. Joe didn't confide in me. But I've known for some time he was disillusioned, sick at heart ... as I was sure he would be, eventually, with a girl like that. And now he's gone, Mary. He's gone to try for a new start. That's all he said in the note he left for me." In the silence, a bird chirped sleepily from its nest outside the open window. Slowly, Mary's head dropped. She hid her face between her cupped hands. "Oh, Joe!" she murmured, so faintly David Post scarcely heard her. "Poor Joe! What has he done to his life— and to mine?" Has the rift between Mary and Joe become so broad and deep that they can never cross it? Don't fail to continue this exciting story of a fascinating woman's life in the April issue of Radio Mirror Magazine. Woman of Courage Continued from page 32 less for a year, in Farmington." William Moore actually looked surprised. Then, he stood up. "Now," he said, "if you'd like to see New York, I'd be only too happy to take you about." "Oh, no," Martha said. "I'll get around by myself. I think it might be sort of fun to get lost here. Don't worry about me. Just take me to a bank so I can cash this check and have five thousand dollars of it transferred to the joint account I have with my husband in Farmington. He might need some money." In spite of William Moore's efforts to get Martha's case on the Court calendar, the Courts closed for the summer before the will was probated. Martha wanted to return to Farmington, but William Moore urged her to stay in Old Port and even suggested that she send for her family. 52 Martha put off her final decision on that, however, until she saw the house in Old Port. It was a beautiful house, a white. Colonial house with twenty-five rooms and rolling, green ^ lawns that ran smoothly down to a I wide strip of private beach. f "But it looks so lonely and cold," Martha said. "As if no one had ever lived here — as if no one had ever been happy here." "You're right," William Moore said. "No one ever was happy here." Then he added, "But you would change that." "No," Martha said. "You don't understand. I — this is all too grand. It's lovely — beautiful — but, well, we're not this kind of people. I don't know what would happen to us, if we lived here." She was thinking of Lucy, whose letters had been full of wanting FADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR