The Lamar register., 1917-06-06
KILLING THE LOVE Stuff
BY OLIVE ROBERTS BARTON.


week she had read and sorted and
blue-penclled and dictated amidst the
roaring Of so typewriters and the
shrllling of the telephones. A fiction
editor under such circumstances is
likely to get stalled on romance.
Love, love, love, It's always love-"
she declared with disgust. II get so
sick Of this everlasting stuff 1 think
I'll scream If someone isn't murdered
soon or the hero doesn't die before his
time. But have to throw them out If
they're not dripping with love for
that's what the public demands.
No one heard these sentiments for
the roaring and shrilling went on I'M
ceasingly, drowning almost every other
sound. Even Brilles, the hard-hearted
managing editor on the other side of
the big room was adding to the pande-
monium by forcibly calling down n cub
for missing big thing he was sent to
cover the night before.
81 think" she unused, as she put on
her hat and jacket and hooked up her
furs, "that / can't accept any more
stories from Treador Vane. The slush
/ L
through. Sometime I'll put 1t up to
Brilles. He's about as romantic and
unbendable as a plate-glass window,
but not" she glanced over at him quiz
ideally, $50 transparent. A regular
sphinx, should say"
She reached the street, a narrow
canyon between the high cliffs of build
ings. She was greatly surprised
that the cold, drizzling rain that was
falling at noon had stopped and that
the thermometer had not only fallen
% degrees, but that a wind. biting and
strong, was tearing down the street
and freezing everything as 1t went.
Pedestrians were cropping their way
nlong. keeping close to the wall for
safety, but 1t was hazardous business.
Sylvia watched n moment from the
haven of the vestibule. She had three
squares to go for her car. Then she
had happy thought. Up In the locker
room she had n pair OF skates.
When she went through the big
room Brilles was still at his desk
Brilles, the flintlike, the heartless, the
much-to-be-feared.
Sylvia stopped beside him. He
turned in his swivel chair and regard
ed her silently. running his eyes over
her slim, girlish figure I'm Its brown
Jersey suit. soft furs and little hat
under which her face glowed like u
rose.
"What is it," he asked quite gently.
81 want to ask you II you don't think
we're running too much sentiment I'm
the story column. I've been keeping
everything with love In it, and return
ing hundreds of ripping good stories
Just because the hero forgot TO kiss his
girl or the parson refused to marry the
old maid. thought I'd ask your opln-
ion. How would 1t do to run in an
occasional good one on another theme7
All this love stuff is just a dream"
as itl"
"Yes-you know It as well as / do.
But the public is queer. They're
crazy about one Treador Vane. per-
sonally wouldn't give his truck room
in the ash barrel"
Brilles tapped his desk a minute
thoughtfully. Look here, Miss Hun
ter, you're here to run that column,
/ ~ hO US sou obbht ~. fN hNoN
that Vane stuff myself and I'm sure 1
agree with you. You're right about
the love business, too. Even the girls
nowadays don't know what 1t means.
Business or something has taken all
the romance out of them. You're
good example yourself"
Sylvia started and remembered her
own summing up of the managing edi-
| tor. Certainly the verdict was mutual.
Its bad night and I'm getting my
skates" she said as she left. "Fm go
ing to skate to the car on the pave
ment"
But as she glided over the slippery
Itreet she decided not to take the car.
Crossing a street, Sylvia collided
with n man. They went down togeth-
err in heap.
"Miss HunterT cried he springing
up.
mfr. Brilles," exclaimed Sylvia.
Are you hurt?"
mot a bit"
But when Sylvia got to her feet
with his help she turned pale. Il be-
lleve I've twisted my foot" she said.
"Oh, that's too badl Can you bear
your weight on 1t at allf"
Eyes, If I don't move It"
'sThsn I'll tow you home. How far