Life — March 24, 1921 — page 14: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“ EVERYTHING I'VE TOLD YOU SO FAR, SIR, HAS BEEN UNTRUE.” WHAT IS THE BIG IDEA?” “WHY—DIDN’T I FIRST HAVE TO GET YOU INTERESTED IN THE PROPOSITION?” The Death of Romance “ROMANCE dies at the breakfast table,” remarked Camilla pensively, making aimless figures on the bridge score-pad. “Why don’t you breakfast in bed, my dear,” replied Alicia Borop; “I do.” “T've tried; that is the dismal proof.” “Proof is always dismal; never try to prove anything. It always annoys people. Either they are wrong or you are, and it is bound to be unsatisfactory,” said Alicia with complaisant finality, wriggling a tiny brown suede-covered foot. “ But, why should it die?” asked Camilla, “That reminds one of the epitaph of the infant,” Alicia murmured, “‘If I was so soon to be done for; wonder what I was begun for?’” “T think that is a quite odious thing to quote, Alicia.’ “But why? The analogy, cr whatever you call it, is so perfect. Romance is an infant that never survives; and although you say it passes away at the breakfast table, I am convinced that it dies from under-nourishment.” “I wonder if Mr. Hoover couldn't be persuaded to organize a relief fund or something for starved romances?” questioned Camilla, a little smile playing about her lips. “He should be sympathetic after his adventures with the Presidential nomination. If ever a romance died of malnutrition, his did, Camilla. What do you have for breakfast, besides Alfred?" went on Alicia crisply. “I don't have Alfred for breakfast; I have to be satisfied with an indifferent egg and a glimpse of his head behind the Tribune.” “Why don’t you read the Times? If the thing is dead or dying, why not swathe it in newspapers?” “T hate to start the day on hunger-strikes in Dublin and—" “Another instance of starving romance,” interrupted Alicia “And Armenian massacres,” continued Camilla. “ T think our own local massacres are so much more amusing There are always some on the inside page,” said Alicia, the brown suede shoe with the fascinating bronze silk ankle still wriggling. “And speaking of massacres, whatever was Bernice thinking of when she redoubled spades that time?” “I don't know what she was thinking of, but she had evi- dently forgotten that 1 was her partner and that we were playing for five cents a pcint,” replied Camilla coldly. “Do you suppose she is as optimistic at breakfast as she is at bridge?” “Bernice Calthrop is one of those ridiculously normal per- sons for whom any meal at any hour has no terrors.” “So her romance is dead?” “Not at all, my dear; it is romance to her merely to have a husband.” “Whose husband?” questioned Alicia, rising and glancing critically in the mirror while she adjusted her veil. “ Her own.” “Oh.” As they moved together toward the door, Camilla ventured: “T shall order another morning paper.” “Better have coffee in your room,” replied Alicia. “And,” she added, “the eggs may not seem so indifferent there.” “I don’t mind indifference in anything but Alfred,” said Camilla meaningly. Ivan Mariner. comicbooks.com