A Maiden's Undoing

The Story of an Innocent Girl's Supreme Sacrifice

WHEN Edward Charles Trevor Fitzhugh Ap Glamis Ap Gwiefys Ap Parantliegh Gwyniad, Lord of Lord and Taylor, and Duke of Phoenix was being christened by the Archbishop of York, that worthy asked him what Biblical text he wished inscribed on his certificate. The young Duke replied, without hesitation, "Oh, let my soul delight itself in fatness."

Edward Charles had never lost his love for fatness, especially for fat ladies. The only woman who had been able to quell his infantile cries was known all over the countryside for her great amplitude and beam. At dancing school he created a good deal of jealousy by kissing only the fat girls in the class.

Had the Duke lived in America he and A1 Reeves would have certainly been partners in the burlesque business.

We next find the Duke on the station platform of Tuxedo, surrounded by two Gladstone bags, three steamer rugs, a hat box and caddy bag. He was travelling light.

When Henry Henderson, of Henderson, Hoozis and Howzat, had told the Duke, at the Knickerbocker Club that he owned a portrait by Rubens of the fattest model that artist had ever immortalized, the Duke gave ready ear; and when he learned that though decidedly embonpointed, the lady was not overupholstered, he became really interested. When Mr. Henderson, who would have made a good circus press agent, declared she was a marvellous mountain of calorific, cyclopean curvatures, the Duke decided, then and there, that the air of Tuxedo, over the week-end, would do him untold benefit. Here he was then, treading the station platform with his proud ducal feet and waiting to be taken to the Henderson's winter palace where Mr. Rubens's reducingcure advertisement was hanging.

Suddenly a sweet small voice broke the chilly stillness of the Tuxedo air.

"Duke—er—Lord—er—Edward—er ?"

The Duke turned to find a very pretty and plump young lady beside him.

"How d'you do," she continued hurriedly. "I'm Marjorie—Marjorie Henderson."

ON the way to the winter palace, the Lord of Lord and Taylor became almost familiar with Marjorie, and even called her a "jolly little butter-ball," on three separate occasions.

Please don't think Marjorie was at all forward. A more bashful maiden couldn't be found in the entire length of the corridor at the Biltmore. Marjorie was as sweet and unspoiled as a movie custard pie. She was the idol of her parents, the darling of Vogue's fashion editors, and the society photographers' one best bet.

There were four great things in Marjorie's life: her car, her prize pup, her French maid, and her painted ukulele.

But now that a fifth passion was about to float into her life—Edward, Etcetera and So Forth of Phoenix—she had put on all the coats and sweaters she possessed and gone down to the station to meet her doom.

Two hours have passed. The Duke is still filling his eye with the symmetry of Rubens' Renaissance squab. While he is thus engaged let us take a discreet peep at Marjorie, who has gone to dress for dinner in the sanctity of her own pink and blue suite in the west tower. As she peels off coat after sweater after coat after sweater, a great truth dawns upon us. Marjorie isn't as plump as the Duke first thought she was. In fact she isn't as plump as we first thought she was. Putting it baldly, she isn't plump at all! In fact, she once made quite a success by posing, at a Red Cross benefit, as a knitting needle.

But when the Duke first saw Marjorie at. the station, things were very different with her. Thanks to the native Irish wit of Celeste, her French maid, Marjorie, when she bounced on to the platform, was a masterpiece of camouflage. With the aid of sweaters and Lucile ruffles, and jackets, and hug-me-tights, Marjorie seemed to be a sure enough bouncing baby doll.

Edward Charles liked fat women, did he? Well, she'd show him. As the hours passed by, the eye of the Duke found increasing delight in Marjorie's appearance. It might well do so, for the reason that each time he saw her, she had on a few more clothes.

LATE on Monday night, the Duke laid his heart, his coronet and his entire schedule of liabilities at Marjorie's feet. And Marjorie, with a sigh that nearly rended her disguise, accepted him—and went to bed. In her own room, as a mild celebration of her good fortune, she drank copiously from a bottle of cod-liver oil emulsion. Then she went to bed and dreamed of the Duke's crest —a gwyniad nageant, gules, with a pickaxe, argent, in its mouth. This crest—oh! happy day—was to be her very own—to engrave upon her stationery, her car, her pup's blanket, and her painted ukulele.

Many fat days sped their way. Like the heathen, the Duke was happy in his ignorance. He never saw little Marjorie other than she wasn't.

Marjorie vowed that she would never tell him the truth—never, never, never!—before their marriage! When he found it out, after they were married—well, he wouldn't forget that he was a gentleman even if he was her husband.

ONE night, after Marjorie had gone to her room—it was after eleven—the Duke, and Mr. and Mrs. Henderson were sitting in the library. The Duke was gazing dreamily through the door at the hall lamp. He had been describing a rippin' little butter-ball he had seen at the Midnight Frolic, and how she waved a flag, and entranced his ducal fancy. Mr. Henderson was listening, with avidity. Mrs. Henderson was knitting a beanie—or army helmet. Mrs. Henderson looked into the hall, and then a cold chill shook her frame. She turned to the Duke, whose face was frozen with incredulity, amazement and horror. His stricken eyes were resting on her own daughter, Marjorie, who stood in the hall clothed, as was painfully apparent, in nothing more than a filmy negligee, and a robe de nuit of the same material.

Nobody said a word.

"May I come in?" chirped Marjorie as she advanced into the library in a direct line between the Duke and the hall lamp.

"Good God!" shrieked the Duke, as he sank into the merciful anesthesia of a swoon. "Marjorie," moaned poor Mrs. Henderson. "I don't care a darn," cried Marjorie, as she hurled her art-jewelry engagement ring at the recumbent form of Edward Charles Trevor Fitzhugh Ap Glamis Ap Gwiefys Ap Parantliegh Gwyniad, Lord of Lord and Taylor, and Duke of Phoenix.

"Celeste had gone to bed and, I just had to come down here and get my copy of VANITY FAIR!"

H. W. H.