Bargain

In Hoboken, N. J. Mrs. Hildegarde Rost snuggled up to Paul Herman on a bench at police headquarters. On the same bench sat Richard Rost. her husband. Inspectors scratched their heads, went into conference, finally booked all three for "conspiracy to violate the moral code.'' With that dilemma off their chests, they told newshawks about their three prisoners.

Richard Rost, they said, collects stamps. Last month he cherished a desire for a particularly rare set, realized he had no money to buy it. He turned the problem over in his mind until one day he hit upon a plan. For months, Rost knew, his wife Hildegarde had been seeing Paul Herman while he had been too absorbed in his stamps to give her more than a passing thought. He left his collecting long enough to take his wife and Herman to a restaurant to make a deal. For the sum of $900, cash in hand, he would sell Hildegarde to Herman. Herman was hesitant. The two men haggled over their soup, their meat, their dessert, their coffee. Prompted by Mrs. Rost, Herman offered $700. With the vision of books and books of rare stamps dancing before his eyes, Richard Rost concluded the bargain, threw in his young son Manfred to boot.

Next day Herman paid an installment of $200 and took Hildegarde home with him. To clothe it all with the sanctity of law the second installment was paid over with due formality in the presence of a notary public. Herman produced a document: "In consideration for the sum of $500 paid to me by hand by Mrs. Rost, I, Richard Rost, release her from any and all further claims and rights." Rost signed, the notary solemnly affixed his seal and the happy trio walked out.

Few days later Collector Rost discovered the loss of some of his best stamps. Blaming his wife, he protested indignantly to police, found himself detained in jail. Even more indignant were Paul Herman and Hildegarde Rost when they were plumped into a cell beside Richard. Not all Richard Rost's stamps would pay the $5,000 bail in which each of the three was held.

Candles

In Manhattan, "Papa" Antonino Ajello candlemaker, told his 110 assistants that the time had come to surpass themselves in the art he had taught them. Papa Ajello's delicately scented tapers have graced the tables of the Prince of Wales and Queen Marie. They have lighted White House dinners and Tammany feasts. As a memorial to his good customer, Enrico Caruso, Antonino Ajello once built a massive candle 18 ft. tall to burn one day each year for 1,800 years. For Mrs. Roosevelt recently he made a beeswax replica of the Washington Monument, unscented "because she is not the type for scent."

Papa Ajello and his no workers toiled for weeks. As the time of his daughter Virginia's wedding approached, the old candlemaker could not control himself. "It will be simply beautiful!" cried he. "Ah, what a wedding! Like Sorrento in the spring! Simply a dream! You enter the church and you don't know whether you're in Sorrento or The Bronx."

At the end of each of the 72 pews in the Church of the Immaculate Conception burned a slim six-foot Gloria Romanesque candle, perfumed with lilies and sweet peas. The odor of lilies of the valley from Isabella Romanesques floated around the altar. Over the wedding breakfast 125 elaborately carved tapers wafted the scent of orange blossoms.

To his daughter Papa Ajello entrusted eight similar candles to carry to Italy, four for Mussolini, four for the Pope.

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