The haunting hand

Mid October, with its tang, and the blazoned glory of its skies and sun and tawny trees! Margot Anstruther thanked a kind fate that she could live these brilliant, exhilarating days out of doors. Had she been confined to office or classroom, her restless spirit would have carried her body with it, in reckless escape. Long Island--where the Superfilm Company studio spread over the landscape--although not precisely the Maine woods or sea, or the open spaces of her own wide-flung West, at least spelled trees and grass and fresh air.

Margot stood on the diminutive roof-garden of her New York home, watching the moon rise over the house-tops. It was eight o’clock and her guests would soon arrive. She hoped that Gene Valery would come before the others. It was pleasant to be loved so ardently by Gene, but she surmised that it would be pleasanter if she could love as ardently in return. At any rate, his friendship was invaluable. He was the only one with whom she could share her mental gymnastics, the aspect of her mind which others would regard as rather too serious for human nature’s daily food.

She had Gene to thank for her tiny roof-garden. It was one of those quaint affairs, a covering built over the yard, to be found in many an old New York house. Gene had rigged up a trellis and had brought potted palms and a South American hammock. For to-night he had hung Japanese lanterns. Margot had already lighted them. That small, mock garden took the curse, so to speak, off her lodging-house quarters, which consisted of one large, high-ceilinged room, in which she slept, ate--her breakfasts--and had her being.

She cut short her transport over the moon, stepped across the door-sill into the room, and cast critical eyes over her domain. A brass bed in one far corner was concealed by a screen, which Gene had made and she had decorated. The effect was rather good. She had recently acquired a divan, with many cushions, large and soft and gaily colored. Against one wall was a chest of drawers, a Chinese scarf over its battered top, a brass jar at one end, and a pewter candlestick with orange candle, at the other. The walls were a muddy gray, but there was a Japanese print here and there, and bright cretonne at the windows and on the wicker chairs.

Flanking the old-fashioned fireplace were her bookcases, built and painted by Gene. As catholic in her literary tastes as in her choice of friends, Margot’s books presented a varied diet; fiction ranging from Kipling to Anatole France, poetry from Dante to Millay. A desk-table and an old console table--her own acquisitions--with carved wood book-racks for a few modern novels, and a bit of brass or copper; and two much worn but softly blended Oriental rugs thrown over the antiquated carpet, almost hiding its ugliness. Margot had achieved distinction, beauty and a subtle charm, in a room which previous tenants of the old lodging-house must have accepted as irretrievably barren and sordid.

She glanced in her four-foot mirror and patted her hair. It looked redder than usual in the light from the candles and from the yellow-shaded electric lamp over by the table. She flicked a speck of dust from the mirror-frame, gave a little twist to her soft, straight hung dress of corn color silk, then glanced toward the lanterns swinging in the evening breeze. Yes--it was all rather nice, but she was especially grateful for the roof-garden. Of course, a chilly October night could not be expected to lend exotic warmth to the scene, but in the room, the logs would be burning.