By Robert W. Chambers
To the literary, literal, and clinical brain purposeless fiction is abhorrent. thankfully all of us are actually and scientifically susceptible; the doom of purposeless fiction is sounded; and it's a nice convenience to think that, within the close to destiny, in basic terms literary and medical works compatible for guy, lady, baby, and suffragette, are to enhance the lingerie-laden counters in our nice department stores. it's, then, with animation and self assurance that the writer with courtesy deals to a regenerated state 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and hugely clinical paintings, thinly yet ineffectually disguised as fiction, in deference to the prejudices of some out of date story-readers who nonetheless live to tell the tale between us. -- R.W.C.
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Additional resources for Green Mouse
At first she mistook his silence for modesty; then--because even as young a maid as she is quick to divine and fine of instinct--she too fell silent and serious, the while the shuttles of her reason flew like lightning, weaving the picture of him she had conceived--a gentleman, a man of her own sort, rather splendid and wise and bewildering. The portrait completed, there was no room for the hint of presumption she had half sensed in the brown eyes' glance that had set her alert; and she looked up at him again, frankly, a trifle curiously.
Here was an opening--the first. And because it was the first its success or failure meant future engagements or consignments to the street, perhaps as a white-wing. There must be no faltering now, no bungling, no mistakes, no amateurish hesitation. It is the empty- headed who most strenuously demand intelligence in others. One yawn from such an audience meant his professional damnation--he knew that; every second must break like froth in a wine glass; an instant's perplexity, a slackening of the tension, and those flaccid intellects would relax into native inertia.
She was a tall girl, prettily formed, one of those girls with long limbs, narrow, delicate feet and ankles. That sort of girl, when she also possesses a mass of chestnut hair, a sweet mouth and gray eyes, is calculated to cause trouble. And there she sat, one knee crossed over the other, slim foot swinging, perplexed brows bent slightly inward. "I can't see any honorable way out of it," she said resolutely. " "When we promised we weren't thinking of ourselves," insisted Ethelinda. "That doesn't release us," retorted her Puritan sister.