Proud Pleasures

Two proud pleasures were Postmaster General Farley's last week. One morning he drove to his office on Pennsylvania Avenue near 12th Street. Instead of stopping as usual at the old Post Office Department Building, that blackened square of granite with cone-capped towers, one of the finest examples of Benjamin Harrison architecture in Washington, his car kept on across 12th Street and came to a stop before a new building with classic white marble columns. "General" Farley was moving into the new $8,500,000 home of his Department. A fair home it was, not so ostentatious as the $17,500.000 Department of Commerce building, but unique in its way. Never have more than 50 newshawks appeared at one of Mr. Farley's Press conferences, but when he invited the Press to last week's "house-warming" in his new private office, no less than 150 newsmen went to see and marvel. Twice as large as an ordinary living room, it was a study in green and brown. One whole wall was a bank of French windows facing on a sunny balcony. At opposite ends rose huge black marble fireplaces. Before one of them sat Mr. Farley, in a green leather armchair, at a walnut desk with a green glass top. He rose, blushing with pride, and declared: "We're certainly grateful to the Republicans for all of this." As the newshawks gaped, his pride overcame him. "Look at the bathroom!" he exclaimed. It was such a chamber as only ladies of the cinema bathe in. The rites of house-warming were later transferred to the tenth floor of the Raleigh Hotel across the street--where the number of the guests consuming scotch and soda, rye and bourbon, cocktails and sandwiches, mysteriously doubled. In Manhattan two days later the Postmaster General had another proud moment. He and his children, Betty, n, Anne, 8 and Jimmy. 6, boarded the S. S. Conte di Savoia at Quarantine. "Who's there?" demanded a woman's voice when Jimmy pounded on a stateroom door. " "It's us, mama, and oh gee, you ought to see my report card. It's got two stars on it. Hey, let us in, will you?''

Out came Mrs. Farley, back from Italy with her friend Mrs. Salvatore A. Cotillo, large, honey-haired wife of a good Demo-cratic justice of New York's Supreme

Court, who last year hoped in vain that Mr. Farley could induce President Roose velt to make him Ambassador to Italy. Mrs. Farley told her beaming husband of her triumphs : "Did we see Mussolini? Say, we saw everything. Yes, Mussolini, of course. A most charming man. He jumped up when we were ushered into his suite, rushed over and took our hands. The first thing he said was. 'Where are your husbands? Are you girls traveling alone?' "At the horse show in Rome we sat in the same box with the King. He seemed to be a very old man." Mr. Farley produced a clipped news dispatch from Cannes, which reported that Mrs. Farley had been "the best dressed woman seen this season on the Riviera." "Well, what do you know about that?" exclaimed Mrs. Farley. "I can't imagine anyone saying that about me. Why, every stitch I've got on I bought here in New York."

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