By Robert W. Chambers
To the literary, literal, and clinical brain purposeless fiction is abhorrent. thankfully all of us are actually and scientifically vulnerable; the doom of purposeless fiction is sounded; and it's a nice convenience to think that, within the close to destiny, purely literary and clinical works appropriate for guy, girl, baby, and suffragette, are to decorate the lingerie-laden counters in our nice shops. it truly is, then, with animation and self belief that the writer in a well mannered way bargains to a regenerated kingdom this contemporary, ethical, literary, and hugely clinical paintings, thinly yet ineffectually disguised as fiction, in deference to the prejudices of some out of date story-readers who nonetheless continue to exist between us. -- R.W.C.
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Glancing up in dismay she found herself in a perfect storm of white butterflies--no, they were red--no, green! " he asked her. "A--a glass of water----" She was already holding it in her hands, and she cried out in amazement, spilling the brimming glass; but no water fell, only a rain of little crimson flames. " she faltered. "With perfect safety," he smiled, and she tasted it. "Taste it again," he said. She tried it; it was lemonade. " It was ginger ale. " She stared at the glass, frothing with ice-cream soda; there was a long silver spoon in it, too.
Her hand still lay in his; she looked up at him; her eyes were starry bright and a little moist. "I simply can't stand this," she said, steadying her voice. " "Your--your distress--" She choked; her sensitive mouth trembled. " "Care--care," she stammered. "You saved my life with a laugh! You face st-starvation with a laugh! Your father made mine! Care? " But she had bent her head; a bright tear fell, spangling his polished shoes; the pulsating seconds passed; he laid his other hand above both of hers which he held, and stood silent, stunned, scarcely daring to understand.
After a while, however, she became ashamed. " Her husband said, "By all means," without enthusiasm, and looked out of the window. "Still," he added, "I made a happy marriage. I'm for wedding bells every time. Sacharissa will like it, too. " Linda cast one tragic glance at her material husband, pushed her sister aside, arose and fled. After her sped the contrite Destyn; a distant door shut noisily; all the elements had gathered for the happy, first quarrel of the newly wedded. "Fudge," said Sacharissa, walking to the window, slim hands clasped loosely behind her back.
Green Mouse by Robert W. Chambers