FICKLE FORTUNE OR HOW GLADYS HUSTLED
[From The Rolling Stone.]
[From The Rolling Stone.]
“Press me no more Mr. Snooper,” said Gladys Vavasour-Smith. “I can never be yours.”
“You have led me to believe different, Gladys,” said Bertram D. Snooper.
The setting sun was flooding with golden light the oriel windows of a magnificent mansion situated in one of the most aristocratic streets west of the brick yard.
Bertram D. Snooper, a poor but ambitious and talented young lawyer, had just lost his first suit. He had dared to aspire to the hand of Gladys Vavasour-Smith, the beautiful and talented daughter of one of the oldest and proudest families in the county. The bluest blood flowed in her veins. Her grandfather had sawed wood for the Hornsbys and an aunt on her mother’s side had married a man who had been kicked by General Lee’s mule.
The lines about Bertram D. Snooper’s hands and mouth were drawn tighter as he paced to and fro, waiting for a reply to the question he intended to ask Gladys as soon as he thought of one.
At last an idea occurred to him.
“Why will you not marry me?” he asked in an inaudible tone.