style="font-size:15px;"> “Here? When?”
“I dunno. Soon, he says. Today, most likely. I think I’ll telephone him not to come.”
“Why? Why don’t you let him?”
“Oh, he’s such a persistent – er, wooer.”
“Don’t you care for him, Helen?”
“Not enough to marry him, as he insists I must do.”
“Oh, well, let him come. I’ll talk to him, if you don’t want to. When may he be expected?”
“Today, I suppose. Oh, of course, he’ll only come to call, – and I forbid you, Patty, to ask him to stay to dinner – or to come again.”
“Wowly-wow-wow! What a cruel fair she is! All right, Bumble, dear, just as you say. And now, scoot back to your own room, – unless you want more chocolate?”
“N-no,” and Bumble looked longingly at the tray. “No, —no! of course not!”
Patty laughed, and gently pushed her visitor out of the room, lest temptation again overcome her.
The Monday evenings planned for the enjoyment of the boys in uniform began to take shape and rapidly acquired considerable proportions.
Philip Van Reypen was a fine organiser and Helen Barlow ably seconded his efforts, while Patty agreed and helped in matters of detail.
Elise was interested and there were half a dozen more of their own crowd ready to help in any way available. Chester Wilde had put in an appearance and Patty liked him from the first. A quick-witted, pleasant-mannered young man, himself engaged in some clerical war work, he declared his willingness to come over from his home in Philadelphia and help with the Monday night parties.
Helen Barlow’s pretended dislike of him was merely coquetry, Patty surmised, and then as the elder Fairfields approved of young Wilde, he soon became a frequent and welcome visitor.
Patty adhered to her plan of giving the enlisted men evenings of real pleasure, and entertainment that was enjoyable to educated and cultured minds. For the first evening, they planned a series of Living Pictures, for, said the sagacious Patty, “give ’em something to look at that’s pretty and they’re bound to like it!”
Elise Farrington and Daisy Dow were enthusiastic workers, and Mona and Roger Farrington promised any help asked for.
As Farnsworth and Chick Channing were both gone away, the circle of Patty’s friends was depleted as to men, but Chester Wilde was a good help and two or three other men were invited to assist.
Philip Van Reypen was still in the city, and his great efficiency and good taste and judgment made him a valuable ally for the cause.
He and Patty planned the pictures, for Helen Barlow knew nothing of such matters and Chester Wilde was better at carrying out orders than originating plans.
“What do you think of this scheme,” Van Reypen asked of Patty as they began on the actual selection of subjects. “Say, three pictures, – tableaux, you know, and have each of them introduce a bit of entertainment of itself.”
“Sounds fine,” she agreed, “if only I had the least idea of what you’re driving at.”
“You will have. Here’s the gist of it. Say, an Oriental scene. Ladies in rich Persian draperies and fallals posed about; men in the gorgeous Eastern robes affected by our heathen contemporaries; all the properties and effects in harmony, – you know I’ve oodles of that junk – and the whole scene glittering and radiant.”
“Beautiful! Great! But is that all?”
“Not so but far otherwise. Now, after the eager audience have feasted their eyes on the sight, and you know, it isn’t to be a motionless picture, – ”
“Then it must be a motion picture!”
“It is, in this sense. The ladies and the men walk about, or languidly wave their peacock feather fans, or sink gracefully on divans, but of course, no words are spoken.”
“Pantomime, then.”
“Yes; rather like a pantomime. Well, then, in comes an Oriental juggler, who does tricks, – ”
“I see! Oh, Phil, that’s splendid! Just what I wanted! And he does real tricks, – good tricks, – and they interest the audience of themselves, and at the same time there’s the beautiful scenic effect going on!”
“Yes, – a poor scheme, – but mine own.”
“A fine scheme! Oh, I see enormous possibilities in it!”
“Then perhaps on another occasion, a Sylvan scene, – a woodland effect, – and in it give a bit of ‘As You Like It,’ or something of that sort. Another time, a Venetian scene, and you can sing with the gondoliers.”
“Yes, yes, I see it all!”
“Oh, you do! Then you’ve no further need of my services.”
“Don’t be a silly! Of course I want you. I couldn’t do any of it alone. How long before you go to Wilmington, or wherever you’re going?”
“Dunno! but it won’t matter. I can run up here often. An aviator’s life is not a busy one.”
“Really? Why isn’t it?”
“Oh, it is, of course, in a sense. But there’s not the same strenuous rush there is in other fields. You see we’re not fly-by-nights, for one thing.”
“Oh, yes, outside daylight hours you’re free to play by yourself?”
“Perhaps not all of that, but, don’t you worry, my lady, I’ll play hookey, if need be, to get up here to look after your interests.”
“All right. Now we can’t put a whole lot of time and trouble on rehearsals and all that, you know.”
“No; my idea was to have these things almost impromptu. Let us plan it all out pretty well beforehand, and then let the performers each time come early, and get posted as to their parts, and the star performer will do the rest.”
“Star performer?”
“Yes; I mean, each time have an entertainer, like the juggler – ”
“A professional?”
“Not necessarily. I know a chap who does wonderful legerdemain, who’d be glad to come to entertain Our Boys.”
“Oh, yes, I see. And I’ll sing.”
“Yes, you can sing, as special character in some tableau, don’t you see? You could be a mermaid or a Lorelei, sitting on a rock.”
“With a lute?”
“Yes, and your hair down, and a gold comb and a mirror, while you comb your shining goldilocks.”
“Nixy! Not my hair down. All the rest, but now I’m engaged, I’ve put away childish things.”
“Pshaw,
