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Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever
vouchsafed you--to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and
have the one you don't want come with a damp curl on his
forehead and kneel to you and babble of Africa and love which, in
spite of everything, shall forever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart?
To know your power, and to feel the sweet security of your own
happy state; to send the unlucky one, broken-hearted, to foreign
climes, while you congratulate yourself as he presses his last kiss
upon your knuckles, that your nails are well manicured--say, girls,
it's galluptious--don't ever let it get by you.
And then, of course--how did you guess it?--the door opened and
in stalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings.
The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen's hand, and out of the
window and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa
bound.
A little slow music, if you please--faint violin, just a breath in the
clarinet and a touch of the 'cello. Imagine the scene. Frank,
white-hot, with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from
him. Helen, rushing and clinging to him, trying to explain. He
catches her wrists and tears them from his shoulders--once, twice,
thrice he sways her this way and that--the stage manager will show
you how--and throws her from him to the floor a huddled, crushed,
moaning thing. Never, he cries, will he look upon her face again,
and rushes from the house through the staring groups of
astonished guests.
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