Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

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Easy to use in the clean privacy of your home; not greasy; will not rub off nor interfere with curling. For 30 years millions have used it with complete satisfaction. $1.35 for sale everywhere. i FREE SAMPLE BROOKI.INE CHEMICAL CO. D' " ' l1"9 79 Sudbury Street, Bo«ion, Ma». Name Street • City State GIVE ORIGINAL HAIR COLOR FARIVS F0R GRRV HfllR 80 asked, very lovely under the droplight in the kitchen, with her tawny hair ruffled and her eyes deeply blue. "Of course he is. That's why they can't get married. Not," Mayne had to add, "that it matters. But I suppose they would if they could." "It doesn't really matter to me, of course, Mayne. It's their affair. But at first it does — it does shock one. "I'm sorry I seemed to criticize Persis," she said suddenly, a few minutes later, as they sipped coffee at the kitchen table. Mayne smiled. "You're an endearing mouse," he said. "Are you glad I'm home again?" "Glad!" YOU know," he said, "I didn't want to fall in love with you." "Why not, Mayne?" she breathed rather than asked. "Oh — every reason." "What harm does it do to like me?" Tarn murmured, her blue eyes raised to his. "Lots of harm." "How often have you been in love, Mayne?" "Oh, not so often!" Mayne answered mildly, smiling. "You like me, too, don't you, Tarn?" he asked in a voice that was almost absentminded. Her eyes met his bravely. "Too much!" she said. "Too much, eh? How long have you known that?" The little ugly kitchen was heaven. Life was heaven. Life was floating and soaring and wheeling about her in all the trembling color of spring. "Oh, from the beginning, I guess, Mayne." "From the beginning." He looked down at her for a long minute, thinking, she suspected, of something she could not sense or understand. What was making him so serious, what was putting that absent-minded light into his eyes? "Mayne, you've never been married?" "Never. Can you imagine my not telling you about it, if I had been? No. It isn't so good, in my business." "Getting married isn't?" Tamara's eyes were wide. "Not for men. Not for men who play certain parts," he explained. "Girls — women like to think a man isn't married, if they see him in a sheik part. As a matter of fact it's in my contract." "What is?" "Not getting married." "Oh, it isn't, Mayne!" Tamara protested, laughing. "It certainly is. Old Helman can break my contract if I marry." "For how long?" Tamara's eyes were still dancing with incredulous amusement. "Nearly two years to run. It was a three-year contract." "Would he actually break it if you married?" "No, I don't think he would. Especially if I'd happened to make a good picture. Well," Mayne said in a different tone, rousing himself from the abstraction into which the conversation had plunged him so oddly, "I've got to go. What are you doing tomorrow?" "Meeting you." "Want to come down and have breakfast with me about noon? There'll be a few others." "I'd love it." Tamara accompanied him to the elevator and gave him an other kiss. Then she went quietly to bed, to lie awake, staring at the street lights reflected in odd little angles and squares on the walls of the stupid boxlike bedroom. So Persis and Joe weren't married? It was funny. Not that it mattered, really, and not that it was any of her business in any case, but it was — funny. Persis was really Joe's — It didn't sound right, and even in her thoughts she left the sentence unfinished. Tarn's part in Mayne's play was small but important. She was to be the wife of the youngest son in the Russian masterpiece, "Five Sons," and at the end she had to kill herself. Mayne was of course Ivan. Playing opposite him was Ida Pinter, a spoiled young actress who had made a success in Portland and was being paid almost as much as Mayne. Mayne disliked her thoroughly, and Ida did many a small spiteful thing to spoil his success. But nothing could stop him; he was splendid. Even from the first rehearsal Tarn could see how as an artist and a man he stood head and shoulders over the other players; he was at once so simple and so sure of himself, so considerate of the others' stupidities and so careful not to delay rehearsals or keep them waiting. IN a way she lost Mayne during this ■ exciting time, but in another and more important way she gained him. They no longer had time to waste together, to idle out to the beach or wander up to Persis's for lunch. But they were working together, and Tamara found that an even more satisfying communion. They rarely met before supper time, except on matinee days, and even on Wednesdays and Saturdays they saw each other first in the opening act. But they had supper together every day at six; an oyster stew or a crab Louis, something very light, for Mayne said no one could play well after too hearty a meal, and after the evening performance they almost always went to have something to eat just by themselves. The play ran five weeks, a real success for San Francisco, and Mayne could have been much lionized and feted if he had wanted to be. But he said he disliked that sort of thing, and when she saw him still unspoiled and simple after his success, Tamara admired him more than ever. They were talking like lovers now, of themselves, and of how they had found each other. Perhaps it was not exactly of marriage that he talked, Tamara, who weighed every word of his in her trembling heart, would admit to herself honestly. But he always talked as if they belonged to each other, and as if he loved her very much and found her beautiful and fascinating and lovable. Often he came to the Todhunters' apartment after the play, and Tarn scrambled eggs and opened beer, or cooked him the steak and potatoes he liked. It used to annoy her when Lance lounged out for his share of the midnight supper, or Coral came in yawning and silent and jaded and observed simply, "Food! Oh, good!" But her own life was so full and happy now that Tamara could feel only pity for their defeated and empty ones, and she always made them welcome. RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR