Husbands Wanted Do women in the United States have it any better today then they did 70 years ago?

Face to Face presents this true story to illustrate that in almost 70 years, for many women in the world, not much has changed.

1938 California. She was one of that vast and growing army of desperate American women who want husbands at any price. But she never dreamed that "any price" might some day mean—

FOR over three years I marched in a parade which passes daily through every city in America, yet is rarely noted by the average citizen. I mean the parade of lonely old women.

My husband died when I was forty-eight, after a moderately successful thirty years of married life. Jeff was what is called, in common parlance, "a good provider"- and I was a good homemaker. We respected each other and were contented together. He was a brass molder, a big rough-looking man whose deep voice exercised itself in hesitating little words of praise—of me, my cooking and my pleasant home. And his big gnarled and add-stained hand always touched me with the gentleness of a child.

I developed a pleasant home—nice substantial furniture, colorful, home-made curtains; and, during thirty years, piece by piece, a collection of good china, linen and silverware. Isn't that the American ideal? I loved what; I owned and took patient care of it; and I loved my rough old husband with all the tenderness I could have lavished on a dozen children, if we had been blessed with them.

One of my wifely declarations of love was, Jeff, you're nothing but a big, ugly old baby!” Then he would laugh, his gray eyes shining happily under his shaggy black brows.

In 1932 we left Philadelphia, where winters are long and cold, to establish ourselves in an orange grove town in Southern California. By that time I was—well, "pleasingly plump", as childless women usually are after many years of contented married life. And my hair was just a little, gray. But I didn't mind that, because Jeff was devoted to me and I knew it.

Soon after our arrival in California we moved to Long Beach where metal workers were in demand. Finding a sunny apartment near the ocean, I set out my prized possessions and resumed the only occupation I knew—that of a beloved housewife. Jeff made good money in the oil fields, and I purchased a new electric refrigerator and a white-enameled stove. I felt splendidly prosperous and secure.

And, with time on my hands, I began to draw about me a circle of California friends, mostly childless, and in our own nervous and ambitious state of well-being. We "threw parties", as it was called. By that I mean we found a so-called reliable bootlegger, and entertained at least once a week, a group of "good fellows”. We became very popular.

All went along happily until the night of March 10, 1933. I was cooking dinner for Jeff and me, as I had done for so many years. Jeff came in as usual on the dot of five-ten and went to our small, pink-tiled bathroom wash the acid from his hands and face and put on the home-made shirt I kept hanging handy for him. Clean and refreshed, he strode into the kitchen and said, as he had said every evening for nearly thirty years, "Hello, wife! Kiss your clean old man.”

That was a sort of ritual with him.

Without warning came a tow rumble as if a heavy truck was bearing down upon us. I heard it and my heart beat painfully. I caught at Jeff’s arm. “Listen!” I cried.

“Earthquake,” Jeff explained slowly.

Then as if seized by giant hands, the whole world shook violently in a sickening, swaying motion. Clinging together, we watched the refrigerator tip abruptly from its niche in the wall, and smash over on to the stove. We stood paralyzed.

Another rumble, and the cupboard pitched forward, throwing on the floor my collection of china, which broke into a thousand pieces. In a sort of psychic trance, we watched the pantry doors open and spill all our canned goods to the floor. Then the lights went out.
In the darkness Jeff shouted, "Let's get out of here!" We did! Snatching wildly at robes and coats, we fled from that apartment like terrified animals. Jeff found our car. In mad haste, he started it and sped down the street trying to avoid the crashing bricks which were falling around us. Then, like white-faced goblins, came men shouting, "Get out! Find higher ground! A tidal wave is coming!"

Jeff drove furiously east and north to higher ground. Oh, we were insane with a strange fear!

Finally, we found others of our kind parked above the city on the rolling hills, and stopped with them, as people do who are in the midst of a catastrophe. During that long night I sat tensely on the running-board, listening to the rebellious rumblings of an earth gone berserk, and the whine of our automobile radio with its ceaseless tales of destruction.

AND, as women do, I wondered why I had not remembered to bring along a loaf of bread. Jeff must be hungry. He had had no dinner. And sitting there in the night light of serene stars, I saw again in my mind's eye, those long shelves lean forward to slide my precious china to the floor where the crushed pieces rolled around like live things. Then I would remember with peculiar terror how deliberately the refrigerator had lurched forward against the stove.

All night we sat on that high hill. All night we listened to gay young voices from radio stations telling us that walls had just gone out, that highways were buckled and fissured, or that old people had crumpled and died. Jeff and I were old, and terribly afraid of that low, irresistible rumble. It was terrifying to realize that a city was being wrenched apart by an invisible force against which man was powerless. That is an earthquake. In the East, I had learned to steel myself against electrical storms and the anger of unbridled winds. But an earthquake comes like a thief in the night, giving no warning except that low growl which is scarcely hushed when a giant hand grabs at the inner-most heart and shakes it—like a dog shaking a rat!

Hour after hour we sat tense and weary, while apparently from nowhere, came that rumble of sound with horrific regularity. Each time we caught frantically at each other, holding tight until the uncanny tremor finished. Then all would be still for a while.

Eventually, however, it was all over, and we returned to our home to sweep out broken china and wall-plaster that had refused to hold under the vicious assault We called in those busy, soiled magicians of repair to give us back a stove and a refrigerator. Quite naturally, I tried to take up where we had left off in the darkness that night of terrifying earth rumblings.

But Jeff never came back from that high hill east of town. His long body returned because he drove our car to the door and quietly turned the key. But my Jeff was lost. I never found him again. First he was "nervous" — imagine rough old Jeff being nervous! Then he was tired. He couldn't eat. The doctors said he had ulcers of the stomach but I knew better—or thought I did! Neither did he return to the oil fields because "the depression" caught up with us, and there was no job waiting, even if he had felt able to take it.

Sickness is a heartbreaking experience in a little home for two.

I watched Jeff's rough old face turn strangely pale, wondering what had happened to him—to his inner soul—during that night of the quivering earth. For nearly thirty years I had depended upon him in every emergency. And there he lay, pale, silent, uncomplaining. It was not right! In fact, it was unbelievable that Jeff could fail me in such a crisis.

But the slow days went on while our few dollars in the bank went to pay doctors, X-ray operators, and household bills. With trepidation I saw it melt away but what could I do? Jeff was ill!

Finally came a day when our savings were gone, I had drawn out the last dollar Frightened, I ran home to talk over our precarious position with the one who had always stood between me and financial disaster.

"Jeff!" I cried as I entered the room.

"HELLO, wife!" he answered slowly. “Our nice neighbor brought in a bowl of goldfish for me. Ain't they pretty? That big feller there reminds me of the boss on Twenty-two."

I stared into Jeff's eyes and knew, for the first time, that I was alone — and penniless. Fear gripped me. What could I do?

I followed a neighbor's advice and visited a certain charity headquarters, asking for work. I told the woman who interviewed me all about Jeff and, in course of time, I was given a place on a sewing project. How strange it was for me who had been so carefully protected always against every financial worry, to earn our livelihood! Strange, but somehow enormously soul-satisfying. Jeff needed me. After thirty years of tender care, I could not fail him!

Then came doctors who quietly watched my Jeff. Subtly they questioned me, and discovered that we had a small paid-up insurance policy. And they told me frankly that, if we would borrow on it, they would take Jeff to a hospital and try to cure him.

We borrowed. Jeff went to the hospital and, in course of time, was returned to our little apartment — as ill as ever. We borrowed again and sought out new doctors. Again he went to the hospital. In a few weeks they brought him back, his big frame gaunt, his eyes tired and uncertain. When he grew worse, we made the last borrowing possible, but in a few weeks they brought him home in an ambulance! And our money was gone.

During all these trials, we found ourselves left cruelly alone. The friends of the "party throwing" days had melted away. If I met them on the street, they seemed in a great hurry, and I sensed that they were too busy in their good times to bother about sick and poverty-stricken people who could no longer entertain them. Alone, in a selfish world which we never suspected could exist, we moved twice, each time into a smaller and cheaper apartment. I sold all excess furniture to get a little cash for Jeff's special needs. And I kept my sewing project job which paid for our simple food, and kept a roof over our heads.

Then, one day, I returned to find Jeff talking foolishly to himself. I spoke to him, but he turned strange, vacant eyes to the goldfish bowl, and laughing gently, said, "Ain't they funny little fellers?" Poor, lonely old Jeff!

I CALLED a doctor who had examined him, but he was busy; then I called a charity nurses' register. Frightened by something which dwelt in the air like an unhappy echo, I returned to Jeff to sit quietly beside him. After a while he looked up at me and said huskily, "Hello, wife! Kiss your clean old man."

I began to cry softly. I couldn't help it. And Jeff's gaunt old hand, bleached and useless, reached out to reassure and console me as it had done during so many years. It was a blind, groping touch—tender, loving, ineffectual! Then, just before the nurse arrived, I drew the sheet up over his beloved face. It was the last thing I would ever do for Jeff.

So, at forty-eight, I was alone with no money and no experience in the world of business. I sold the furniture — all that was left of it—which, together with the few dollars remaining after Jeff's burial expenses had been paid, constituted my entire resources. Still burning with resentment at the indifference of our "fair weather pals", I determined to go to Los Angeles and find not only work, but a new and more sincere circle of friends. And while I could not say it, even to myself, I knew I was going there to find a husband, who would take to some extent the place Jeff had filled in my life.

After many delays, and what we call "red tape," I was transferred to a sewing project in the metropolitan district. I rented a small room in a modest rooming house; and bought a new pair of shoes because mine had worn through while I used every penny I earned to care for Jeff. Also, I bought other things which women need to appear well in the business world. But with all my thrift, I soon found myself wholly dependent upon my own earnings for support.

It was here that I first sensed, dimly, the never-ending march of the hopeless parade. In that old, discarded warehouse with its cold concrete floor where I was sent to work, were dozens of long tables before which women sat down to sew, more or less inadequately, on shirts and overalls. 'Old women, tired women; women who had children to feed or old husbands to care for. But, for the most part, they were widows like me, penniless and heart-hungry, who, from a serene domestic establishment, had been roughly beached on the shores of the depression. Lonely and afraid, they ran to the relief agency, to be able to earn bread and a roof over their heads, while waiting with pathetic eagerness to meet another man who would take the old husband's place.

In the beginning I was left pretty much to myself because I could not mention Jeff without telling all about him, and weeping at my own sorry plight. But those weary old women who had known so much of sorrow and loss, found me irritating and tiresome. I sensed that finally, and learned to wear a bright, smiling face during my half- day at the sewing rooms.

One day my supervisor, a tall, grayish woman with peculiar eyes and a wide, hard mouth, asked me if I would have lunch with her, I was enormously flattered and accepted instantly. We left together and went to her small apartment, a living room with a folding bed, a tiny bath and a kitchenette. At lunch she said, ''Do you ever take anything to drink?"

"Of course," I answered gayly. Sure, wasn't I a good fellow? "In Long Beach, before Jeff died," I explained, "I was considered a pretty good scout!"

With peculiar solemnity she poured two stiff drinks and set one before me. "Do you smoke?" she asked.

“No—I'm sorry!" I answered, feeling rather infantile before her. "But Jeff would never let me smoke."

She lighted a cigarette and pulled on it with a sort of offensive determination.

"Jeff is dead," she said in a low voice. "Take my advice, dearie, and forget him. I had to learn that lesson.

"Today, if you hope to interest a man, you must not only smoke and drink—but you must get yourself some swell clothes and be the life of the party. I might — I might — help you! You see, there are a lot of men looking for a modern woman to pal around with, but they are not the marrying kind. And why should they be? They have nothing to offer a woman like you. But I warn you — don't start crying on their shoulders as you have been doing with those old cats at the project. Men hate that sort of thing! Of course, men are a lot of cold-blooded buzzards these days — you will find that out!"

I looked at her weary, twisted mouth and disillusioned eyes and my heart sank. Instinctively, I knew she was not the sort of friend I was seeking, but I was her guest.

BEFORE lunch was over, and after the highball had gone to my inexperienced head, she got up slowly, a peculiar look in her eyes, and came around to my chair. I was terribly frightened. When she bent my head back to kiss me, I tore away from her and ran from that apartment like one pursued by a devil. I left my only good hat there. But what did that matter? I was free from that strange woman. At home I scrubbed my teeth vigorously, trying to get rid of that horrible, unnatural kiss.

Next day I dared not even glance at my hostess of the day before. Feeling cheap and unclean, I kept my eyes steadily on my work and my tongue silent.

When my shift was .released, I went into the dressing room, eager to get out and away before any one spoke to me. Then a quiet, smiling woman came up to me and said, "I see you didn't fall for old Kate."

"Fall?" I repeated stupidly, although in my heart I cringed at her implication.

"Poor old Kate!" she went on complacently. "She imagines she is a sort of Julias

Caesar around here, because her dear and unlamented was a successful political boss in the —— Ward, until bootleg got him. She's as queer as they make them, but possibly she can't help it. Life is awfully funny, at times. Poor devil! She has a strong political drag, or she would have been thrown out on her ear long ago."

I stood before her as humble as a child. "I—I didn't know," I pleaded.

"Of course you didn't," my new friend answered cheerfully. "Decent women never do!

"My name-is Ellen Kane. A couple of us girls who saw you go away with old Kate yesterday decided we would take you up if she didn't spend the morning patting your shoulder and giving you the easiest work do. That's her way — afterward! Now powder your nose and come on up to the flat for a game of bridge. You play?" That was like old times. "Oh, I love bridge!" I answered.

We thought you would. We each buy something on our way home, and have lunch together. It’s thrifty and we like it better than cheap restaurants.” She smiled again “You’ll like our crowd, and I’m sure we will like you!”

"How much—what—do you play for?" I asked, afraid to get into something, I couldn't afford. "I mean, how much a point?"

She patted my shoulder in a comradely spirit. "We play for fun, honey," she answered. "In fact, we have nothing else to do, these days."

It was pleasant and exciting to go with that small group of women, feeling that again I had found my own kind. We bought the sort of things women buy when they need not consider a man's appetite—pickled pigs' feet, cream cheese and pimentoes, olives, and fresh white bread. They told me to pick up a quarter-pint of mayonnaise. Again I was a normal woman, doing the things women do.

DURING luncheon I heard the stories of every woman there. I heard about kind old husbands who had been homely but dependable; of children that bad grown to a certain age, then fallen victims to flu, diphtheria or other illnesses. And there were tales of pretty little homes, with the American ideal established in linens, and china which, due to earthquake or the wrecking of domestic establishments, were lost irretrievably.

I watched those gentle old faces quiver with sorrowful memories, and my heart went out to them. Of course I talked about Jeff, and a soothing experience that was, because they listened with deep sympathy. Then, when there was- nothing more to say, we set up the card tables and played bridge until late afternoon. Near dusk, we re-dished the remnants of our luncheon before we went home. In imagination I followed each one, seeing her little futile activities, sensing her despair at being no longer useful or important in this peculiar modern world that worships youth. And I saw clearly, and with terror, that hopeless parade of forgotten women in which, henceforth, I must march!

My new hostess proved to be a friendly, clean-minded woman, and I clung to her like a lonely little leech. Thereafter, because none of us had any pressing duties beyond our "work relief project," we began visiting each other — lonely, useless old women sitting together and talking about our happy, prosperous pasts, when there had been so many necessary things for us to do. And sometimes, hesitantly, we talked about, our futile little dreams.

But no matter how gayly we planned, we each knew that we were trained old housewives looking for a good husband like Jack, or Tom, or Jeff, to complete our living. One fact struck into my mind and soul from the beginning. We — eight middle-aged women from eight different walks of life — were seeking exactly the same thing: a husband.

I marveled over it when I was away from them; and realized that twenty or thirty years of homemaking unfits a woman to live in the business world – or anywhere, except in her own home. She carries that precious experience like a knapsack on her back, unable and unwilling to lay it down.

Oh, we played played at being free "bachelor girls"; but no one of us would have hesitated to leave that freedom at a moment’s notice to go "back to the pleasant tyranny of married life.

In subtle recognition of that fact, we gradually became more confidential with each other; refusing, however, to let the barriers down too far. Instead, we talked about getting out to meet the "right sort of man" to-—well, we never stated just why we wanted to meet him. Each knew, deep within herself, that while the flame of physical desire had burned low, the spiritual need for loving service and security flared like a torch in her heart.

Moving obliquely toward our goal, we discussed the idea of attending certain public dances held in Los Angeles. "It's lots of fun," my friend, Ellen Kane, declared. "Women are admitted free—and why not? We are the ones who have to put 'up a swell front! There is no formality because, if a man likes your looks, he either comes right over and asks for a dance, -or has the floor-hostess introduce him. Seems old-fashioned — but some men are like that."

"I HAVE nothing to wear to a dance," I protested. "You see, Jeff was ill so long that I forgot all about such things."

"Oh, you'll have to get a husband-hunting outfit," fat, jolly old Alice Bogard answered with her delightful chuckling laugh.

"But that's not much of a problem to women like us. I bought a black silk, and made it myself. You know how to sew. Get busy, old girl, if you expect to keep ahead of all the purty little 'widdies' at those dances!"

So I got a permanent wave, and bought fresh rouge and powder. I also made a party dress from a remnant of silk, and purchased a pair of cheap but pretty dancing slippers.

And to demonstrate to all how modern I had become, I learned to puff on a cigarette and "sparkle my eyes,"' when a drink was offered. I cared for neither, but I couldn't afford to act like a "horse-and-buggy," as we girls called the old-fashioned and dignified behavior we had been taught was proper. My work shift was from seven to twelve each morning, and I dragged my unwilling body out of bed while daylight still dallied east of the mountains, to catch a certain street car that would get me to the relief, center on time.

If, sometimes on cold rainy mornings, I remembered kind old Jeff saying, "Stick in, wife. I'll make the Java," and wept a little, who can blame me?

At home in the afternoons I rested for a while; then manicured my nails and painted them a fashionable scarlet, massaged my lined face and was ready at eight to go forth, with that little group of sisters-in-adversity to hunt for—a good husband!

My success, was not particularly heartening, in spite of my brilliant make-up and high-heeled, slippers. I was just a little more than "plump" and my hair was, by that time, quite gray. In a way, I was very pretty but I wasn't modern. Some of those strange, lonely men who frequented the dance halls, danced with me often, for I had always been a good dancer. But during many dances I sat among the wallflowers, wishing my corset wasn't quite so tight.

Now, because the men I shall tell you about are real men, I, think it best to use only part of their names. I could make up names, of course, but I might forget the special event which causes me to mention them.

There was, for instance, a big, raw-boned man, probably ten years younger than I, who wore a bright blue suit, and said his name was "Conrad." His breath was always richly alcoholic, and his eyes slightly blood-shot.
As we danced to the thump-thump of the orchestra, he grunted, "Widow?"

"Yes," I answered with forced cheerfulness.

"Grass or sod?"

"My Jeff' died last year," I stated, with a peculiar sense of offense.

"Insurance.?" he went on.

"Not very much. In fact, none!"

He left me at the first intermission, and turned to the others seated near me. I watched him dance with each of "us girls," and finally give his whole attention to poor little Emily Tingle. Now it so happened that Emily was the only one of our crowd that did not seem to fit in. She had never been married. Also she was painfully timid, with broad hips and those narrow, ill-shaped shoulders that so often result from too early corseting. Her eyes behind thick lensed glasses, were near-sighted, and her smile was as vacuous 'as a baby's. But she stuck resolutely with us; saying little about herself, and nothing about her dreams. We endured her because none of us were heartless enough to shut her out.

To my amazement I saw Conrad dance again and again with poor scared little Emily; and we wondered what possible appeal she offered that blase young man. For several weeks following that evening, she did not join our small affairs. It was not surprising, therefore, when she did come and say, "I am to be married Saturday. I would like to invite all you girls, but Con - that's my fiancé —wants the wedding to be very private."

We congratulated her heartily — each wondering how poor little Emily had won the youngest and best-looking man who attended those public dances. But time went on, and one day Emily came to see Ellen Kane. With white face and misery-smitten eyes, she ' told the story.

"Con" had discovered during their first dance together' that she had a small insurance policy from her father. After the marriage, he had insisted on investing it in a proposition which would make them independently rich. In the delight of her new domesticity, she had not questioned him. But the days wore tan and, finally, he had told her bluntly that not only was her money all lost, but he was through with her. There was nothing she could: do about it, she said. The next day we read in the newspaper that she had turned on the gas in her meager little apartment. Frightened and miserable, we went to the funeral. Poor Emily!

ALSO there was Weylan, a neat, rather small, gray-haired man who informed me that he was a "government agent." To prove it he flipped back the lapel of his coat, permitting me to catch a glimpse of his badge. He was most attentive to all of us in turn, but he never made any effort to accompany us home. I had a secret belief that he was especially attentive to me; but when I heard fat old Alice Bogard announce that he was also attentive to her, I dropped the whole matter.

And—I laugh when I think of it!—there was the rather young ne'er-do-well, a laundryman in a private insane asylum, who, on his one day off each month, got "all lickered up" as he called it, and came down to dance with the pretty old hens; He was particularly attentive to me, because we danced superbly together, until he rolled his drunken eyes at me and said, "Gee, I'll bet you were swell when. you were young!" That was too much! I never danced with him again.

As I look back over those evenings in that shabby dance-hall with its out-of-tune five-piece orchestra, they seem like confused dreams, during which I smiled steadily and danced with men I didn't care for, knowing all the time that it was a useless endeavor. I was not fooled by the set smiles and gay voices of the women I was with. I knew what they were searching for with all the intensity of which they were capable. They like me, were looking for a man who would accept patient care, unending service, and simulated passion in return for—a home!

Then came Fred. He was the most pathetic little man I had yet seen, at the dance-hall. His body was as slender as a hatchet-handle, his face tired and a little frightened, and he wore a rich brown toupee, on –a rather small head that must have been almost completely bald. He came up to me without the floor-hostess, and said, very formally, "My name is Jenkins. May I have this dance?"

I smiled, as we “paraders" all smile under such circumstances, and stood up. He placed one grimy hand about my waist and I liked it—the hand, I mean. It looked like a small edition of Jeff's—acid-stained, malformed by broken nails and beyond the power of soap and water to clean.

"Brass molder?" I asked when we were dancing quietly together.

"Supposed to be," he answered.

WHERE?" I thought he might have known Jeff.

"Down at the old shop. The market is shot, and I get only part time. But that pays a little better than the WPA-ers get." We stepped on methodically to the strains of "Moon Over Miami," while I 'discovered that I didn't particularly resent that toupee. Older women do not laugh at things like that.

Then he said, "You look an awful lot like Mattie, my wife. She was kinda plump and pretty. She's dead."

"Moon over Miami, da, da, di dada, da—"

"Jeff had hands like yours," I started gently. "He was a brass molder, too."

"Divorced?"

"No."

After that we were friendly, but I couldn't care for him. He did not fit into my new dreams of a prosperous husband who would establish me in a fine home and replace my Lares and Penates in thirty days instead of thirty years! With shame, I remembered that, even while I lived with good old Jeff, I had sometimes visualized being free to find that/ideal of all women—a successful and handsome man who would adore me and give me the luxuries I craved. I never thought about what I had to offer. But dreaming women never do!

So the days wore on, every morning being spent at the "project", to earn my daily bread, every afternoon spent furbishing or resting my middle-aged self; and almost every evening devoted to various dance-halls, searching for some one willing to restore me to the joyous status of contented wifehood. My dancing slippers began to wear out and the black silk of my party dress grew a little rusty. But nothing came of my hopeful dreams.

Then, one night, gray little Weylan asked me for a dance. As we wove around the crowded floor he said abruptly,' "How about a bite to eat after this dance?"

Although I was fifty, I could not readily agree to go out with a strange man at midnight-"Sure!" I answered, sparkling my eyes at him encouragingly. "But let's take Ellen Kane; She's a good, scout, too!"

"No," he answered coldly. "I want to talk with you—alone!"

My heart missed a beat. Was this it—that opportunity I'd been hunting? I glanced at his well-made suit arid immaculate linen, and remembered that he had been appraised by "us girls" as a successful but lonely man, looking for a wife. He was about my own age—perhaps a little older—and I might learn to like him.

Guiltily I slipped away from my friends and met Weylan in front of the dance-hall. He took my arm and led me to a nice car parked down the street. After we were in, and the car got under way, I turned to study his face in the light of the dash lamp. I found it peculiarly lined and stern. I hadn't noticed that before. But he spoke pleasantly, and suggested quite a famous restaurant in the lower business section of town. I'd heard of it, but Jeff and I never went to places like that.

We entered a long low room which was in almost complete darkness—or so it seemed to me. At the door I was met by a faint odor of stale perfume, and warm human bodies from the packed mass of dancers moving over the polished floor to the beat of a jazz orchestra. I noticed that several men nodded briefly to Weylan, but he made no effort to talk with them or introduce me. We threaded our way-carefully to a table enclosed-in partitions like a small breakfast- nook, which gave us, a remarkable sense of privacy.

WHEN we were seated he asked what I would like to eat; and, overcome by an acute sense,of self-consciousness, I begged him to order. I was flattered that the attentive waiter called him by name and thrilled that I should be dining with such an important man. When two glasses were set before us in the dim light, he smiled with the thin-lipped and unhumorous smile he affected. "Like Scotch?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," I answered. I didn't. I hated the oily, smoky stuff, but I dared not tell him so.

"This is imported," he informed me. "It won't hurt you like this new booze they're selling."

We danced together a time or two; but finally the drinks, with numerous cigarettes and the stuffy air of that exotic room, made me feel unpleasantly dizzy. In an impelling desire for self-protection, I suggested that we talk. He studied my face in the ruddy light of our small, table-lamp, and asked many questions. How long had Jeff been dead? Did my family live here? How much did I earn at the project? Did I know many people in town? and finally how old was I? Of course, I lied a little about my age.

Finally I mentioned the lateness of the hour, and he rose immediately. As I shook hands with him before my door, he said, "Would you care to go to a show tomorrow night?"

Would I! When I accepted happily, he promised to call for me at eight. I was so pleasantly excited that I could not sleep. Hour after hour I lay thinking of what the future might offer me, of Weylan and how it would seem to be married to him. Of course, I didn't love him and he had not mentioned love to me—but his intentions were unmistakable! Or were they?

He was a successful man in this era of national disaster; therefore, why should he choose a woman like me? Of course, things like that did happen! Oh, it seemed too wonderful to be true.

The next evening, as we left the theater he asked if I'd like to have a bite of supper with him at his apartment. The idea startled me because, while I'd read of such things, this was the first time I'd ever been invited to do them. My first reaction was one of fear. But I was no longer a girl! And surely he had no plan to murder me!

He watched my face closely while a dozen arguments fought in my mind, then said,

"Well?"

"Oh, that, would be—be nice!" I answered.

But my knees shook.

"I have something—a proposition I want to talk over with you," he explained.

So! Then everything was all right, I told myself. What proposition could he have in mind except marriage? Facing that certainly, I found I did not like it so well. He was a stranger—a silent, cold, deliberate stranger. He should have waited until we had more time to know each other. But if he offered me the security of a home, I knew I would not refuse it and return to that—to that hopeless parade!

I was thrilled by the elegance of his apartment. A young Filipino served us on a small table before the fire in the beautiful living room. When he carried out the table, he disappeared 'discreetly. I enjoyed the sense of doing something daring and dangerous. Why shouldn't I be smart and happy? That was all I asked of a rather shabby and hopeless world.

Weylan left the conversation almost, entirely to me. I noticed—absently, because it didn't really matter—that he seemed preoccupied, as if listening to something outside the room; but I carried on as cheerfully as I could. When a sudden bell rang somewhere in the house, he rose swiftly to intercept the boy on his way to the door, and said a few brief words which I, did not understand. The boy returned alone and Weylan seemed relieved. All those things I registered at the time, but I was too pleasantly excited to think much about them.

Answering a question of his, I was telling him how Jeff and I decided to move to California, when he -interrupted me.

"I've been watching those women you run around with for several weeks," he informed me. "And I've decided that you are the smartest and best-looking one of the lot. How would you like to be my housekeeper?"

I was stunned by the abruptness of his proposal. "You mean—"

"Just that," he stated. "I'm moving into larger quarters in a few days—tomorrow, in fact," he said. "I'll pay you a good salary to look after things for me."

"Do you mean that -I—that you—" I couldn't put that question into words but I had to know.

He laughed softly. "That wouldn't be so disagreeable, would it?" he asked.

No—and yes! But a good salary, net! Why not? There was no one in all the world to care what I did, and the kind of marriage I wanted seemed very improbable after my years in the hopeless parade. I could save the salary, and — Oh, it would be pleasant to live on any terms in a fine home like that, and enjoy again the care of a man who liked me!

HE snapped out his watch. "Make up your mind," he urged.

Trembling with excitement and uncertainty, I said, "What would my duties be?—I mean—"

"That's just it," he explained. "My establishment will be somewhat out of the ordinary. In fact, I plan to take the lease out in your/name. I need a woman, whose record is clean—absolutely above suspicion. And I-also want a good sport who is willing to take life as she finds it. You see, I am working out a new proposition with a group of men from the border—Mexicali, and other places down there. They will make our place their headquarters when they come up. They may even bring in their women - you know how that is!"

"But I—"

"You'll never see them. My friends and associates will have keys to the place. Only when strangers come here— But we'll go into that when you are established."
Something warned me to run, and I stood up. Swiftly he came to me and put his arms around me. "You must trust me," he urged gently. "You are lovely and I like you. Wouldn't you enjoy pretty clothes and gay times with me, for a change?"

"If you really like me, why don't you ask me to marry you?" I asked," clinging desperately to my standard of decency.

"I can't. I'm married."

"Where is she?"

Instead of answering me, he kissed me passionately on the mouth. And desire — not for him, but for something I'd almost forgotten during the lonely years just passed — swept through me. I was not old, like those other women in the hopeless parade! I was at the splendid peak of my maturity. Eagerly I embraced him and returned his hot kisses.

As we drove along, he told me his plans. He would come for me at nine the next evening, to take me to my new home. He advised me Jo report to the project, saying I had a position as housekeeper with a family named Houser.

"Tell your friends the same story, because I do not want them hanging around you," he informed me. With another embrace, he left me at my door.

Again in my cold, lonely room, doubt attacked me. What had he really offered? A life of shame—as I had been taught to call it! Yet why should I hang on to those old ideas? What would it get me? Nothing, but the privilege of marching with my weary old friends in their pitiful search for good husbands. Had they found him? No! After five or ten years, they were still on the march.

TRUE, Weylan's explanations had seemed subtle and evasive. Who were those men from the border? And what was the nature of that new business? In some strange way, like the stirring of conscience, I remembered Jeff reading lurid accounts of a thing called "white slavery". Could it be that? What about those women who would be unseen guests in our—my—home? Nonsense! I was a mature woman, and no one would enslave me unless he liked me, and I agreed! Resolutely, I remembered Weylan telling me that I was "lovely." Reassured, I fell asleep.

Leaving the project was merely a matter of form. They were glad to write me off and give my place to some less fortunate woman. Ellen Kane studied my face with her wise gray eyes, but asked, no questions. At home I packed my two suit cases and notified the landlady that I was leaving. Then I sat down to wait as patiently as I could for nine o'clock.

During the long lonely hours, when intuitive questions presented themselves to my mind, I thrust them aside impatiently. Modern women no "longer felt bound by hose outmoded conventions. They recognized that they, too, had desirable bodies. Was I not equally alive? Why should I refuse even a semblance of the love and security I had lost during that earthquake? If I did not grasp this chance, I must look down the long shadowy years, seeing myself like "the girls" clinging to the sewing project, and soothing my heartache with futile little dreams until—Weylan came promptly at nine. For the first time he entered my small shabby room, and stood gazing around with pity in his eyes. Abruptly he caught up my suit cases and said, "Let's get going!"

We drove west, through territory which grew gradually more quiet, more elegant and more exclusive. At a dark corner he swung off the main thoroughfare and, after traveling swiftly for several blocks, turned in before the doors of a closed garage.

He got out. With a special key he opened the doors, and we drove in. Then we went through a narrow passageway, and at a small door, he pushed a bell three times, and waiting a moment, pushed it twice, before he applied the key.
We entered the rear hall to what was, evidently, an elegant private residence. "Jo-Jo must be out," he explained.

"Will he stay here?" I asked, remembering with distrust the sly Filipino boy.

"I couldn't get along without Jo-Jo," he informed me. "He has been my valet for
ten years. He knows my ways, and will relieve you of all housekeeping responsibility."

“But I thought—"

"Don't- think for a while," he answered shortly.

He set the suit cases down and led me to a magnificent drawing room. I looked around shyly, sensing immediately, that this was not a home, but a residence carefully furnished for a wealthy tenant. He left me and went toward the kitchen. He was gone a long while, while I rubbed my cold hands together and wondered, wildly, why I was there. Eventually he returned, smiling his close-lipped smile, and carrying a small silver tray in which were two glasses of wine. I knew immediately that he had been drinking during his absence; but when he raised his glass saying, "Here's to a beautiful good fellow," I sparkled my eyes, and tried to forget that I was in a very strange situation.

AFTER he led me upstairs where there were many bedrooms, if I could judge by the length of the hall, and had shown me to my room, I determined to make the best of a thrilling experience. My room was a lovely one; all green and orchid, with fine mahogany furniture.

"Jo-Jo will bring up your bags," he told me. Then, "Here's your private bath." He opened a door and threw on a brilliant light.

I glanced in at a shining expanse of orchid and black tile, then turned to put my arms around him. "I feel so strange," I whispered, "as if I were in a peculiar dream."

He kissed me, and smiled. "Dear old girl!" he answered, and embraced me gently,

"It will all work out," he assured me. Just then Jo-Jo brought in my luggage, and slyly motioned Weylari to the hall.

Unintentionally I went near the door and heard Weylan exclaim angrily, "I thought we got out in time! But I'll fix that. The boss promised us protection."

Wholly unimpressed, I opened my suitcases and began hanging my shabby "project" clothes in the beautiful closet. Weylan hurried in saying, "I must run away for a little while. But you turn in. I won't be long."

Relaxed in the luxuriously soft bed, and surrounded by beautiful impersonal things, I was strangely contented. I pictured Weylan riding swiftly through the darkness to find "the boss"—the chief of his government detail. He had proved that he was a government agent when he showed me his badge. With that moment came a new sense of security. I would have preferred an honorable marriage, of course; but if he was married to some one who — Well, it didn't matter now. He wanted me! Satisfied with what I had, and weary after a long uncertain day, I drifted into peaceful slumber.

Sometime later I was awakened by low voices in the hall. Thinking that Weylan had returned, and eager to tell him how grateful I was for everything, I went toward the door. But before my hand touched the knob, I realized that those were strange voices. Jo-Jo was arguing impatiently with some one. Gently I sprung the knob and peeped out.

A dark young man in full evening dress—a handsome Mexican, I judged—was facing Jo-Jo, and talking to him in rapid Spanish; near him stood a lovely young American woman in formal dress, her face showing plainly that she was terribly intoxicated.

"Put this dame to bed!" the dark young man ordered in English. "I'll find Weylan!"

Back in my bed I lay thinking about that vivid scene in the hall, and again strange fears beset me. But hadn't Weylan, my lover, prepared me for that? No one had dragged that pretty child in there by force!

Old fool I, looking for evil where there was only petty vice!

After a time I slept again, to waken at my usual hour of six. Slipping on a dressing robe, I went quickly to the kitchen to learn from Jo-Jo why Weylan had not returned. But the kitchen was silent and deserted. I laughed at myself. Of course, "project workers" got up at that hour, but servants in homes like this didn't! Foolish old me!

I returned to my room to bathe and dress carefully before I again went to the kitchen. Still there was no Jo-Jo attending to his morning tasks. Feeling my way uncertainly, I went to find him. I located his room, but a glance told me that he had fled.

Thoughtfully I returned to the kitchen, pondering the situation. I opened the rear door and, seeing a newspaper there, brought it in. In the elegant kitchen I found a can of coffee and set about to make some for myself. While I waited for it to drip, I opened the paper idly, to glance at the headlines.

My eye was instantly caught by a photograph of Weylan. Feverishly I read the caption below it: Hartman, alias Weylan, alias Houser, head of a local vice ring, taken by police on charges of white slavery, and impersonating a federal officer.
Without really thinking,, but reacting to that impulse of self-protection which abides in us all, I ran to my room and began throwing my clothes together. In mad haste I jammed on my hat and, carrying those two suit cases, I fled as I knew Jo-Jo had fled. I found a street-car in the heavy gray fog and reached Ellen Pane's apartment just as she was closing her door.

"Ellen," I cried, breathless, "Let me in, please! I'm in terrible trouble."

"I haven't a minute, honey," she explained, studying my white, frightened face. "Old Kate was kicked out yesterday and I am the new boss. But here's my key. Get in there and lay low. I'll be back just as soon as I can."

All that morning I tossed restlessly on Ellen's folding bed, shivering with an unnamed fear.

"It can't be true!" I cried constantly. There must be a mistake. Weylan, a government officer was - But that was one of the charges against him!

WHEN Ellen returned, I threw myself into her arms and told her the whole sordid story. "Poor foolish little kitten!" she crooned when I had finished. "Now you are in a bad spot! Did you sign anything?"

"No! We were to go down today and close the lease."

"Does that Jo-Jo know where you lived?"

"I'm sure he doesn't. Weylan was close-lipped."

"Then stick in here until we see what happens. I'll hold your job open on the project.

"What's the use of being a supervisor if I can't take care of my friends?" she asked, trying to cheer me.

I kissed her gratefully, because a real friend is a wonderful gift. Then I lay shivering with misery until she brought me hot soup and coffee.

For days I dared not leave Ellen Kane's apartment. Every strange step or ring at the door sent me scurrying into the dressing room, to hide while my heart pounded as if it would leap from my bosom. I read every word of that trial avidly, searching with sick fear for a mention of my name. I read about those men who were associated with him in his "new venture"; about the handsome young Mexican who was accused of being a procurer, and about another who ran a dance-hall on the border from which minors, beautiful and stupid young girls, were sent by fast automobile to our fine Christian cities to be the playthings of rich and powerful citizens! Oh, it was heartbreaking.

And I had thought I could love a man capable of doing such things. Even when I read that Weylan and his associates had been convicted and sent to prison, I could not drag myself back to the project, dreading the treatment I might receive if my story got out.

During the time I felt compelled to hide, lest I be drawn info that sordid case and find myself unable to prove my innocence, I subjected my hair to a bleach in the best theatrical manner. With what eagerness I sat down to lose my identity and have the mileage written off; and with what heartbreak I saw the aged jowls and eye-lines leap out like avenging devils to cry, "Fool! Fool!"

Under the flattering lights of the beauty shop, it had looked like a great success; but in the cold harsh light of day, I had to steel myself against the pitying smiles of my aging friends who had been too wise to spend their relief money on such a daring gamble. I looked no younger—only coarser and harder. Well, hair does grow out. That was my only consolation.

IN the course of time, I returned again to the project because I had to earn my living; and again to the society of my friends. I joined them at the dance-halls, wearing my husband-hunting outfit which grew steadily more shabby. But I was no longer hopeful of snaring a prosperous husband to provide me with that dearly desired home; and I discovered with dismay, that my friends had long since given up real hope. To them it was a little game of words only. But they had nowhere else to go, except to movies, which tire old eyes, or to play weary little games of bridge together. And so the days went on.

Then, one night, drab little Fred Jenkins again asked me for a dance. I was glad to see him, toupee and all, for it was like seeing a trusted old friend. I sparkled, my eyes at him under my unnatural golden hair, as all "paraders" learn to do automatically, and moved out on the floor with him.

"You're looking mighty pretty' tonight," he said, when we were in step with the music. "How's things going?"

"Fine!" I lied, smiling bravely.

"How many millionaires did you turn down last week?"

"Only six last week," I answered, playing up to his little joke. "Of course, that doesn't count one or two billionaires!" .

A shadow passed over his face and he said no more until we were seated together during a brief intermission. Then he spoke hesitatingly. "I reckon you are having pretty good times these days. You look so happy that—well, I'd better not ask you because I hate to be turned down."

"What did you want to ask?" I replied, puzzled.

"I reckon you are always dated up on Sundays."

"Not every Sunday," I assured him quickly, remembering the endless Sundays I had spent in stuffy little rooms, dreaming about the happy days with Jeff and crying myself ill.

"I'd hoped that sometime, maybe you would go with me up to my cabin in the mountains," he explained. "It's not much - just a shack. But I own it. And my old rattletrap car runs. You see, I don’t want you to get any wrong ideas about me. I’m just a failure, and everything I have is kinder shabby. But the air and scenery up there are great!”

"Oh, I'd love to go!" I cried. "Especially now while the weather is so fine!" The next Sunday Fred Jenkins in his pathetic toupee called for me early. It was a beautiful day, all blue and gold, with something electric in the air. His automobile looked like a museum piece, but the motor hummed along like a contented bee. I mentioned that, and he replied, "I'm a pretty good tinkerer. I keep her tuned up." The cabin, too, was just what he had called it—a shack. But it was set high on a hill overlooking Antelope Valley—and it was snug and clean.

He built a fire in the small wood-stove and set about getting lunch. "Oh, let me," I begged. "I love to cook!"

"Thought you would," he answered complacently. After we had eaten, he dried the dishes and helped me put everything ship-shape in the cabin. Then we sat down side by side, in the doorway, gazing out over the valley. Quail called from the sparse mountain shrubbery, and a young cottontail came hopping around the corner of the cabin. We sat there, resting and thinking, and watching the drifting clouds make purple shadows on the valley floor. He offered me a cigarette and I said, "No, thanks. I don't really like them." I didn't have to be gay and modern with him.

"This is the first time I've really rested since—since Jeff passed on," I said, thinking aloud.

"I know," he answered. "When we begin to get along in years, dances and things like that don't really seem much fun, do they?" Again we sat in silence. "The depression has been hard on lots of folks—almost everybody, I reckon," he went on quietly. "But it has been hardest on people like us—past fifty, and not really wanted, or needed, anywhere. But we have to go on living whether we like it or not."

"Yes—whether we like it or not!" I agreed.

"It ain't life we hate," he argued gently. "It's the way we're left out of everything, and trying to make believe we're not. Now take you and me: we're in the same boat. We're lonely! We have always been accustomed to a real home, and we hate the cheap makeshifts we have now. And I don't reckon we'll ever find that crazy kind of love we once had."

"No, I suppose not," I said. "But even old women like me dream of being loved for ourselves—until we look into the mirror."

"And old fool men dream of winning a beautiful young woman," he replied laughing with tender amusement, "until they look at their empty purses! But to be fair, I couldn't expect a young girl to love an old fossil like me, could I?"

My heart sank as I realized the wisdom of his observations. I was getting no younger. What did the future hold for me? What was there for me to do but to stay on at the project until—"I've been thinking," he said, as if in answer to my tense silent query, "we each earn just about enough to get along on—alone! Now why can't we pool our income and get a snug little place that would be home, anyway? I'm handy about a house, and would help you with everything. And we'd have somebody to care for us, and kinder look after us if—if anything happened. And I think you are mighty pretty and sweet."

I TURNED to study his face. It was kind, and there was some fine emotion pictured there. Why not? I respected this quiet little man. I didn't love him, but had I really loved Jeff after those first few years together? Hadn't we become just devoted friends? Certainly I hadn't felt the kind of emotion which story-hooks call "love" except—my heart cringed at the memory of Weylan!

When I did not reply, Fred went on as if talking to himself, “Conditions are bound to change. I’m a good craftsman, a designer and molder of fancy brasses.

When times are right, I make enough to keep up a nice home. Now, I'm not trying to promise anything because prosperity may come too late to do either one of much good. But we could hope, couldn't we?”

I liked his simple honesty. Oh, again to have some one who needed me and wanted to be with me! To have a niche, no matter how humble, that was all my own. No more lonely Sundays. No more heart-corroding fears! Tears filled my eyes.

"Don't cry!" he begged quickly. "I'm just a blundering old fool!"

"You're not!" I protested,' wiping away my tears. "You're the gentlest man in the world, and I'd love to make a home for you!"

His face lighted with happiness. But he did not try to kiss me. Instead his arm went around my shoulders, as tenderly protective as Jeff's had always been.

***

We were married a month ago. We both have our jobs, but we are so eager to get home from work and be together in our bright little apartment, that all weariness is forgotten when we reach our door. I invited "the girls" in to visit me last Sunday afternoon, and while they were nice, and curious about everything—and very kind!—I knew they were also sorry for me and my evident poverty. That was not the kind of marriage they planned to make!

When they had gone I sat down and cried. I couldn't help it. Fred came in and found me in tears. "What's wrong, wife?” he asked, instantly alarmed.

"Nothing is wrong, dear," I told him, smiling through my tears. "Everything is splendidly right! I'm crying for pure joy because I — because I am no longer a marcher in—the hopeless parade!"

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