Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1942)

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EXLAX CopyriKht. 1942, hy Kx-L*l. Inc. SOUR STOMACH ._ ., .. I .^r /otijer relief fr Try JESTS, the new and different „.,.o,eH.s.>^r.^rro™dUues.du^ ::.^^;i."cr.i;fb-.c!:br:;^ouod.. Guaranteed by the makers of Ex-Lox. X0cAROLL-3»or25c TOMBSTONES 95 DIRECT TO Y O U $A • Or-nuini beautiful ROCKDALE 9 UP MtDimenli, Mirkart. SatlHluition EASY orMoneyBack. Frra-lctti-rlliU I'rw; TERMS catHl'.K iTilKht iwlil, ComimruourprlCCT I Rieh<ala Maiimtil C<., D«»l i44 Jtlid. IIL I 'llBLMR lasz IS3I neither of us had ever seen. "Well, I certainly wasn't hurting her," I snapped. Bill motioned to the waiter for our check, paid it and then stood up to help me into my coat. It wasn't until we were outside that he said doggedly, "How do you know you weren't hurting that other girl? What makes you so sure?" "Why, I — " I stopped abruptly, for I realized that I had no answer to his question. We walked along in silence, a little wall of misunderstanding rising higher between us with every step. When we reached my hotel instead of Bill's usual lingering kiss there was only a brief "Good night, Elizabeth," then he turned and slowly, dispiritedly walked away. I stood as if turned to stone. This couldn't be happening to us. Bill loved me — as I loved him. It wasn't possible that the very means I had taken to keep us together had driven us apart. I took one last look at that unhappy, plodding figure then with a sob I darted through the doorway and ran to my room. I threw myself onto the bed and cried until I could cry no more. In my ears I could still hear Bill's "Good night, Elizabeth," but gradually its echoes faded and I heard his earlier, inflexible, "How do you know you weren't hurting that other girl?" At last I sat up in bed and faced the question squarely. I didn't know. I had never known. And that, I realized — as Bill had realized it — was the basis of all my worry. If I had known her, been her friend, I would have made every effort to help her get the job. But because she was a vague, unknown person, I had fooled myself into believing that I owed her no consideration. I saw now how wrong I had been. I saw too why Bill had acted so strangely when he left me; he was hurt, disappointed at my selfishness and my lack of regard. Then I was remembering something else — that other Elizabeth Adams was a cousin of Bill's roommate at college! She wasn't an unkown, vague person to Bill. I had been miserably blind to the truth he had tried to make me see. But it was clear to me now. There was only one thing to do. I would have to find Elizabeth Adams and atone, in some way, for the wrong I had done her. I HADN'T any idea where she was ■■■ living, and if I could help it, I wanted very much not to ask Bill. For then I would have to tell him what I was planning to do, and that would be too much like trying to make him think better of me just for the sake of our love. I did remember that on the original application blank she had filled out she had written down Blandings, a small town in the upper part of the state, as her birthplace. I went to sleep knowing that the next day I would go to Blandings, perhaps to find her there, perhaps only to begin there a long search for her. The memory of that trip is jumbled now, only a reries of stops at small wayside stations, then a tiny village. which was Blandings, where I found the girl I was looking for. And it was then that I felt my greatest self reproach, for I needed only one glimpse of her shy, frightened face to know how defenseless she was; only a hasty glance at the shabby clothes she wore and the drab little house she lived in to tell me that her need for a job was greater than my own. "Elizabeth had become discouraged, just as I had, when she couldn't get a job," I explained to Bill later. It was the evening of my hurried trip to Blandings and Bill and I were sitting side by side in a booth at the restaurant around the corner from my hotel. "And you were right. Bill," I rushed on, "about her needing work. As soon as I saw her I realized what a terrible thing I had done to her. She isn't very attractive and she seemed pathetic, somehow, as though she had lost all hope. "Then when I explained who I was and told her how I had gotten the job that was meant for her, instead of blaming me she was so sweet that I felt more ashamed than ever." Bill squeezed my hand understandingly. "What happened after that?" "Elizabeth packed and we caught the next train back to town," I answered. "I took her to Mr. Marsh and when I told him the whole story there wasn't anything he could do but accept my resignation and give the job to Elizabeth. Then I phoned you —and, well, that's all." Bill grinned reflectively. "Being unattractive may be a help to Elizabeth," he observed. "At least Karl Winters won't pay any attention to her. And I am glad you won't be in the same office with him any longer." His words brought me back to reality. The excitement of the day had driven all thought of myself out of my mind, but now the realization of my own plight swept over me. Despairingly, I turned to him. "Oh, Bill, what am I going to do now?" I cried. "Here I am out of a job again, and I can't even hope for a reference from the one I have had!" Instead of showing concern. Bill continued to grin. "Why do you suppose I got back from Rochester a day early?" he demanded. I shook my head wonderingly. I hadn't even thought of that. I'd been so glad to see Bill last night that it had never occurred to me to ask why he had returned ahead of time and the bitterness of our parting had driven it further from my mind. "I was called back to start work on a new show," Bill announced triumphantly. "That big sponsored show that's beginning next week. I'm going to be the announcer." "Bill!" I breathed, my excitement as great as his own. "Oh, darling, how wonderful!" "The most wonderful thing about it," he went on eagerly, "is the salary. It's — well, honey, the only job you'll have to worry about from now on is the job of being Mrs. Bill Stuart. Do you think you'll like that job?" He caught me in his arms then and my "It's the only job in the world for me. Bill," was muffled with his lips. NEXT MONTH! As soon as you get your April issue, you'll want to sing and play Radio Mirror's Song of the Month, "Lovely," the beautiful ballad Lanny Ross has made so popular on the air and on records 66 RADIO AND TELEVISION IVIIRROR