Life — July 8, 1926 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

‘‘LeT ME DRIVER YOU OVER,’ UR WABBLING TO 1118 not propose to be skied. Lois solved her individual problem b; iling in alone. She found a place v young companions, from whom she waved to us when the exodus of another party admitted our merry band. “Her Scarlet Night” was three-fourths over when we crowded by half a row of spectators. I had inserted myself into the middle of our group, with the Libbys playing the ends, but this did not prevent an occasional conversational shot from whizzing by me. The car was on Mrs. Libby's mind, and she leaned forward at intervals to whis- per hoarsely, “Did you lock the ” lied Libby. A few moments leave the lights on And so on, du arts of 3 rlet Night” ended in the up of two ie, nuz- Angele was proved a y and we sank back to ecrable overture, the in- terminable announcements of “Com- ing Attractions,” the news reel, and finally the comedy, “Sam in the $ atorium,” a terrific affair in which the doctors turned out to be feeble-minded patients. Then ater: “Did you x all the most “Her let Night” began over again and we had a chance to find out what it was all about. ne end first,” “it’s like read- “T like seeing said Mrs. Libby ing a book.” “Keep still,” said her hus- band triumphantly. And so we sat there, picking on each other from time to time. Opinion was divided as we filed out. “Angele Andora is a_ beauty,” opined Luther. “Luther, you're hopeless,” said his Life wife. “She was ter- rible. I never saw such hands —so grubby. You can tell a lot by hands.” “And feet,” added Mrs. Libby. “Did you sce her feet?" “T'd seen it before,” said Lois, who had re- joined us. “Dad, I'm dying for a soda.” Mr. Libby smiled » MR. Lippy, benignly. Lois can do ” anything with him. “We'll stop at the “The sky's the “TI ought not to,” said his wife faintly. “I'm on a diet, and we have everything ready for a rabbit at home.” “Oh, come on,” cried Luther, “let’s make a night of it.”". The party from now on being Libby's, Luther was all for it. We guzzled great foaming sodas at the Spa, Mrs. Libby so far forgetting herself as to grapple with a combination of strawberry ice am and maple syrup. Even this did not spoil her appetite for the sub- sequent rabbit which Mr. Libby con- cocted with the jocular solemnity of a genial high-priest. “Not as good as usual,” he said. “This near-beer’s no good.” But we scoured the chafing dish, our appe- tites—the men’s, at least—whetted by a generous jolt of what Mr. assured us was pre-war. Lois vin- dicated her existence by turning on the radio, a jazz program from the Cuckoo Club, the racket of which drove the ladies into the library, so that Luther was free to replenish his glass without interference. In mid-third his wide eyes met those of his wife. One look was enough. “You come home,” she said stern- ly. “Let me drive you over,” urged Mr. Libby, wabbling to his feet. “Don’t bother,” said Mrs. Prit- chett with what was meant for a smile. ‘The walk will do Luther good.” Good night, good night. We've had a lovely time. Wasn't it fun!” As the gravel crunched beneath our tread, the radio switched to “Horses, Horses,” and I caught a glimpse of Lois doing a pas-seul Charleston and of Mr. Libby slowly mounting the stairway. His wife was addressing him but apparently he did not hear her. What city program can compare with these quiet home evenings? None, I tell you. Luther felt awful- ly seedy this morning and said he was through with movies. “They're all punk,” he said. ‘I'd much rather stay home and listen to the radio.” He has told me so much about his set that I am tempted to go over and listen-in some evening. If I do I'll tell you about it. “ ‘GALLERY NOTHING,’ SAID LUTHER DEFIANTLY.” comicbooks.com