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

Gregory, Horace
Falling behind,   pp. 148-149


Weinbaum, Stanley
Mostly Yvonne,   pp. 149-150


Page 149

WISCONSIN LITERARY MAGAZINE
and I brought him West with me to get him straight-
ened out."
"There is no one who could take better care of him,
I'm sure."
"Nonsense, Peter. You're getting too old to pay
compliments to me. We're all growing old, and
there're not many of us left."
She tapped his arm with her fan and leaned closer,
looking up into his face.
"You can't hold out much longer, Peter; you've
turned gray."
The room had become insufferably hot. The music
seemed far away. Webb felt a ringing in his ears.
The dancers floated by. He could have counted the
faces that he knew upon the fingers of one hand. He
was falling behind, losing everything. There was
one last hope,-Alice. He must find her.
He rose.   "I'll bring you a glass of punch,
Madame."
Mrs. Van Dusen smiled and nodded her head.
It was at the buffet in the dining-room that Peter
caught a glimpse of Alice. She turned about and
came toward him. She was adorable in pink. Her
large blue eyes met his.
"Hullo, Peter. Where have you been? You
must meet Howard,-he tells such amusing stories."
She indicated a tall young man across the room.
"Alice, will you give me your last waltz?"
Webb looked at her earnestly. His gray eyes
pleaded.
"'Why, I guess Howard won't care. I'll let you
have it. Come now, you must hear his funny stories."
"Sorry, Alice. I'm on my way back to Mrs. Van
Dusen. I'll find you later."
; Now that he had found Alice, he wanted to sit
back in a corner to plan his course of action. He
must play his cards carefully. He must be sincere,
and yet restrained. He must not lose his head. He
forgot Mrs. Van Dusen, everything except his last
waltz.
Alice was waiting for him at a door which led out
to the side veranda. The last waltz, one of Strauss's
was just beginning.
"Let's go out doors, Peter; I'm hot and tired out,
-I want to talk to you.
He followed her into the moonlight. Things were
turning out beautifully. He would win-Alice's
husband!
"And I want to talk to you, Alice."
Her eyes were blue, even in the moonlight. He
was very close. He could feel her body breathing.
He took her in his arms, -she did not resist-she was
so pretty. Alice's husband,-his last chance to stay
in the "set". Her lips were cold and moist. There
was a touch of frost in the spring wind. She pushed
him away.
"But Alice, dear, I want you to marry me, I-"
He was losing his head now-his brain was throb-
bing. She hid her face in her hands.
"I love you, Alice, I-"
Then he saw that she was laughing,-laughing at
him.
"I'm awf'ly sorry, Peter, really. But I couldn't
help it. You were just like Papa when he kisses me
good-night. Come, we'll forget about it, and I'll tell
you all about Howard. Howard's an awf'ly nice
boy."
Webb had left her.
An hour later Webb was back in his room, seated
on the edge of his bed. Well, everything was over.
Alice was going to Europe-very likely young How-
ard would be in the party. And Peter Webb had
lost. He would be lonely, but the "younger set" had
come in, and he was thought of as an old man. He
wvas not the same as he had been twenty years ago.
He had fallen behind.
Mostly Yvonne
STANLEY WEINBAUM.
"Really, M. St. John, you must meet my niece
Marguerite. Charming girl," babbled Mine. Chan-
tAmes, her rotundity ludicrously compressed into a nar-
row Marie Antoinette bodice. She removed her
masque and peered about. "Marguerite! Where in
the world-! She is wearing a ballet affair. Where
-Ah, there !"
She swooped down on a graceful little figure in
pink-very little pink indeed-and dragged her over
to St. John. One had a fleeting impression of a
piquant nose-violet eyes laughing through a black
silk masque a mass of black hair.
"Marguerite, this is the Baronet St. John," re-
marked Myne. Chantemes in an abstracted manner.
She was wondering vaguely where the servants had
disappeared, and in a still remoter area of her con-
sciousness, whether there was any punch left. Per-
haps this abstraction, or her near-sighted eyes, or the
heat, may account for her mistake. For, as a matter
of fact, the masqued figure in pink was not her niece
'March, 1922


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