The Best Short Stories of 1921 and the Yearbook of the American Short Story

the kind of eyes you dream of. She captured the critics and the public alike. Her name was on every lip and the Broadway the

erformance; and it was Minckle who, after the piece had been running a month in New York, found a photograph of the star in the top draw

's voice. Of course he had come in at the very

cheeks, Shelby took the photograph from Mi

of my desk-when I have any,"

hat even the Associated Press could not give more publicity to the discovery than Minckle could. He dreaded-a

. There, on the walls, he told us, were innumerable photographs of Miss Davis, in every conceivable pose. They looked out at one from delicate and heavy frames; and some were

awfully well," St

Shelby said; and Stanton told me ther

cried, astounded. "You've never met this girl, and

my dream, my illusion,

nd Fifth Avenue, for that matter-if he could, wa

. They dealt with lonely men who brooded in secret on some unattainable woman of dreams. This sounds precious; but the tales were saved from utter banality by a certain richness of style, a flow and fervour that carried the reader on through twenty pages without his knowing it. They struck a fresh note, the

ueur and a cigarette. That flaming room, which we who were fortunate enough to have our youth come to a glorious fruition in 1902, attracted us all like a magnet. Here absinthe dripped into tall glasses, and the seats around the sides, the great mirrors and the golden curtains, which fluttered in summer and remained austerely in place in winter, made a little heave

e liked to get nervously excited over a liqueur and a mazagan of coffee, and then flee to h

the magazine-editing game. I found a berth on that same popular periodical to which Shelby was then contributing his matchless stories; and part of my job was to see him frequently, take him t

e. I tried to broaden his horizon, to have him meet other men-and women. He would go with me once or twice to some party, for he was clever enough to see that he must not offend me, just as he knew that

smiled tolerantly, for my own taste ran much higher; and I seemed from then on to sense a certain cheapness in Shelby's mind, as if I had lifted the cloth over a chair and discovered cherrywood where I had hoped to find Chippendale. It is through such marginalia that we come to know people.

. The book, called, as you may remember, "The Shadow and the Substance," was a tour de force in vapid writing, and it almost severed his

re he sent me several short manuscripts filled with his old grace and charm of style-a sort of challenge to his critics. But always we waited for the story with a punch; for the story that would show there was a soul in the

doubt flattered by silly women who were fascinated even more by his fiction after we printed his romantic photograph. For he had a profile that captivated many a girl, e

d then blew in one morning, better-looking than ever, brown and clear-eyed. He had been all over the Orient, and he said

on glassy seas. He traveled by himself-he hadn't even one chum whom he cared to have share his joys; and though he pen

who had just returned from a trip around the world; and he fascinated us all by his lively recounting of certain dramatic happenings in the Far East. Zulus had captured him o

eing Shelby to his doorstep during

ve about all the while, I look eagerly for excitement, I hope always for the suprem

elt so sorry for him. For once he

e really loved a woman-or a friend, even? If the great thing should come into your life, wouldn't it illuminate your whole literary expres

. "Won't you allow me to

ht there in the street; b

me vital experience before you can hope to reach the top. This vicarious loving isn't worth a tin whistle. You're like a soldier in the ba

He never liked the tr

to indicate that he was having the time of his life, at last. But there was something false-I cannot q