Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 13, 1920 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

ARGOSY-ALLSTORY el a ae VOL. CXXVII SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 138, oe ee 1920 NUMBER 3 by Marguerite C. Storrs CHAPTER I. MARRIAGE OR MONEY. ANFIELD MASTERS passed a R deeply engrossed débutante, her wide, blasé eyes intent on the mur- murs of the chinless young man who bent nearer to her on the wicker seat that was almost screened from view by a well-placed palm; endured the lorgnettes of several dowagers duly enthroned at one end of the most noteworthy features of the new Len- non estate; affected not to see the sum- mons of Edith Grail, who was frankly. known to be husband-seeking; and stopped finally in the embrasure of a velvet-hung window. Here he drew out his dance-card and looked at the name quite as if he hadn’t been repeating it to himself ever since that one dance with her. ‘ Lawton,” he read, and turned: from his vantage point to look at her. The divan on which she sat was blue like the hangings of the room. Against it the dull—almost faded—rose of her dress. shone like the time-warmed paint of an old master. “She might have just stepped LA down from a Watteau fan,” Masters had told himself on first meeting her. There was something of asceticism in the finely modeled features and the cool brown eyes that held flecks of gold in them as: did the brown of her hair. But this was denied by her mouth. The upper lip was fuller than the lower, and admirably made for either pouts or laughter. It was an unstable little mouth, a mouth of caprice, even of passion. Betty Lennon had murmured to Mas- ters only a few minutes before, “ The daughter of Mears Lawton, you know. Ab- solutely no money! But so charming!” Charming! The word recurred to the watching man. He found himself think- ing of long galleries hung with rich paint- ings, the soft murmur of a foreign-tongued guide; and, there before him, framed in dull gold, a girl with powdered curls, a voluminous gown of faded rose held high in one tiny, jeweled hand. Ranfield Masters moved nearer, and the girl drew over to make a place for him on the divan at her side. ‘We're talking about money, Mr. Mas- ters!” she said. “Oh, you know Laurie Truedale, of course!” 289 (ECO A AVC O) WWOOKS (E(0)