Page:Czecho-Slovak Student Life, Volume 18.djvu/14

line had ever known, set down her teacup. One glance through the window identified the intruder, but altho a bright spark gleamed in her old brown eyes, she said nothing.

Lurline walked out and reached the scene of Gerald’s accident just in time to catch the twelfth installment of the biography of that coupe. As far as she could tell, not one of the adjectives used was flattering.

“Oh, you cut yourself!” she said as soon as she saw him. And in a moment her dainty linen handkerchief was twisted around Benda’s thumb.

“Gosh, I’ll bet you’ve got me down for no end of a sap,” he grumbled, when Lurline finished. With a gruff “Thanks” he was in his car, stepping on the starter.

“Gerald Benda,” said the girl, “you’re not going to run that tire like that, are you?” It was—well, it was another proof that he was probably embarrassed.

Again he was at work on the tire; but it was hard, for he was always conscious of the slender girl beside him, watching his bungling fingers. Funny, he had never noticed her before so much. . . . different from Lollie Burlik and her group. . . talked as though she were not just dying to be tied to your apron strings. . . not nearly so heavily veneered with pretence. . .

And a gray head turned away from the window in the cottage. A smile lit a pair of old brown eyes, and Susan Marko’s lips opened in a laugh.

During the weeks that followed Gerald had called a number of times, for he liked Lurline and found Susan Marko quite congenial. Then once he took Lurline to meet his own aunt. Lurline remembered with a score of shudders being ushered into the presence of the factory queen—the Hottentot. In a soulless, extravagant sitting-room stood a woman whose height approached six feet. She had a clear-cut, determined face, molded on handsome lines. She wore something tailored and dark, and her abundant jet hair was done up neatly on her head. She was not old—perhaps not over thirty-five.

When Lurline came in, she felt as if she had stepped into the house of the seven gables. She shrank from the chilly survey of two steel gray eyes, while in her heart she felt that this woman will hardly be her friend.

“So this is Miss Marko of whom you have talked so much, Gerald?” Mrs. Kolbasa said in her reinforced voice, “I’m so glad to know you. And this is my husband—Steve.”

In this wasted man of fifty, Lurline saw a fellow being. She squeezed his hand with a force that surprised him. But she was jerked from a brief vision of herself as this man’s friend to face the cold fact of another’s existence.

“I’m sorry, but I have promised Lollie Burlik I’d be over. Gerald will take me.” It was the Hottentot speaking.

Lurline stood near Mr. Steve Kolbasa, and watched with amaze-