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Gangelin, Paul; Hanson, Earl; Gregory, Horace (ed.) / The Wisconsin literary magazine
Volume XXI, Number 6 (March 1922)

Weinbaum, Stanley
Nothing much,   p. 150

Page 150

Marguerite, it was her god-daughter, Yvonne Del-
Mine. Chantemes left the pair with an incoherent
murmur. The pink-clad bit of fluff looked up at St.
John, and mentally decided to allow the mistake to
stand. Yvonne was certain, despite the narrow
masque, that M. St. John was quite the handsomest
male figure of the evening. She suspected, further-
more, that Mme. Chantemes rather intended Mar-
guerite to make herself as agreeable as possible to the
young English nobleman; the Chantemes were
wealthy enough to support an impoverished title, and
were quite willing to assume the burden, and finally it
was not in Yvonne's nature to resist a joke.
Her companion was looking over the rococo assem-
blage on the floor; the scenes are few as vivid as a
fashionable bal masque. Perhaps St. John was a
trifle jaded, for the fantastic costumes of the men, and
the still more brilliant, if less expansive, garb of the
women, seemed suddenly gaudy and a trifle coarse.
"Let us go into the garden," he said turning to
Yvonne. "It's beastly hot in here."
Thus it happened that Mine. Chantemes, discover-
ing her error, was quite unable to rediscover either
Yvonne or the blase baronet.
Meanwhile the two had drifted to an isolated seat
in the garden. It was quite near the outer wall, and
the light from a swinging street-lamp yellowed the
turf, the bushes, and the narrow stone bench. Appar-
ently without art or forethought, Yvonne had seated
herself so that the light fell directly on her face; she
knew her own charm and was not afraid to put to the
St. John felt mechanically for his cigarette case,
and frowned as he found it empty. Yvonne offered
him hers and selected a cigarette for herself. A soli-
tary bat pirouetted, dipped, and whirled in great
circles about the street-lamp, imagining, no doubt, that
it looked like a gryphon. The bridal-wreath was in
bloom, and the long, white-veiled twigs and branches
sighed as if they were in love.
St. John turned a little toward his vis-a-vis.
"D'you know," he said, "I'm expected to make love
to you now.
"Of course," murmured Yvonne, "but if it's at all
She removed her masque, apparently to powder her
nose. She did not notice the startled expression that
passed over St. John's features as she did so.
"No, indeed! On the contrary," responded he,
His tone was altered and more interested. The bored
note had vanished from his voice. Yvonne felt the
"Ma chere marraine, la reine," she began.
"Votre cher marron le rien!" interrupted St. John.
"Families are such a drag. One has to marry now-
adays to gain freedom."
"Oscar Wilde!" she gibed. "And whom would
such a dilettante as you marry?"
"My ideal," he responded reflectively, "has black,
oh, very black hair, and a harlequin wit, and laughing
violet eyes,-and," he added maliciously, "she never
blows smoke rings and then sticks her fingers through
"Beast!" exclaimed Yvonne delightedly.
Well, to make a short story considerably shorter,
Yvonne raised her head from St. John's shoulder, with
an almost serious look in her eyes.
"Chri," she said, "I must confess. I am not Mlle.
Marguerite. I am Yvonne Dellanoy.
"I knew that!" chuckled St. John. "I was intro-
duced to Mile Marguerite early this evening."
"But I haven't a franc to my name," mourned the
"And I haven't a pound,"
"I've unlimited credit, though!"
laughed St. John.
When mornings you attire yourself
For riding in the city,
You're such a lovely little elf,
Extravagantly pretty.
And when at noon you deign to wear
The habit of the town,
I cannot call to mind as fair
A symphony in brown.
And evenings-You blithely don
A brevity of white,
To flash a very paragon
Of lightsomeness-and light!
But when the rounds of pleasures cease,
And you retire at night,
The godling on your mantelpiece
Must know a fairer sight!
March, 1922

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