Fickle Fortune Or How Gladys Hustled
[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.
"Because," said Gladys firmly, speaking easily with great difficulty, "the progression and
enlightenment that the woman of to-day possesses demand that the man shall bring to the
marriage altar a heart and body as free from the debasing and hereditary iniquities that
now no longer exist except in the chimerical imagination of enslaved custom."
"It is as I expected," said Bertram, wiping his heated brow on the window curtain. "You
have been reading books."
"Besides that," continued Gladys, ignoring the deadly charge, "you have no money."