"No one could say exactly what
happened." (They never can.) But it was something very solemn and
important, and in the end the Russian, in a fancy dress of feathers, was
found dead at the foot of the cliff, whither he had flown (or was it
danced?--well, no one quite knew). He all but carried with him little
golden-haired _Vera_, who was all but a dove. This is a quite
characteristic sample out of _Day and Night Stories_ (CASSELL). And the
conclusion I came to was that Mr. BLACKWOOD must get a lot of fun out of
staying in "cosmopolitan hotels." You need a special attitude for the
proper enjoyment of these mystical yarns. I read them all conscientiously
through, and I got far the best thrill out of "The Occupant of the Room,"
which, attempting less, was much more successful. "H.S.H.," His Satanic
Majesty, of course, who was climbing the Devil's Saddle and turned in to
the Club hut for desultory conversation about his lost kingdom with a
stranded mountaineer, left me inappropriately cold. I suppose I am immune,
a bad subject: but I feel as sure as I've felt about anything in the realm
of light letters that a charming writer is overworking an unprofitable
vein.
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