The Golden Flutterby by Craig Rice [Pseudonym of Georgiana Ann Craig] _She was magic, meant for love--and like so much of beauty, strangely marked by fate._ Of course it happened a very long time ago. Today, there is barely a charred, overgrown trace left of the buildings that burned, the curious, helter-skelter collection of gaily painted little two and three apartment houses that huddled together, down a steep valley scarp from the broad avenue above. The whole affair, indeed, is almost forgotten--almost. He is a mature man now, the head of a family, successful in his business, liked and respected, a solid citizen in all things. But _he_ still remembers. As long as he lives, he will never forget. And the little children--all grown up now, of course--surely _they_ must remember, too. It began on a night that was windless and clear, neither warm nor cold--a night that was very quiet. He was young, and he was lonely, a stranger in the town in those days. All by himself, he had gone into one of the small, shadowy bars that dotted the broad avenue that crowned the hillside. He sat there alone, scarcely touching his glass, not seeking companions, all but oblivious of the men and women who moved and got acquainted with each other all around him. He had no idea how long she had been sitting beside him when first he noticed her. Even then, it was the drink that he noticed first, rather than the girl. The glass that held it was conventional enough--thin and gracefully stemmed--but the drink itself glowed with a color he could not remember ever having seen before. A gold color it was, yet with more light, more luminescence than gold. It was marvelously clear, yet there was an occasional hint of swirling mist in its depths that appeared and vanished and appeared again. He watched it for a while caught by its almost hypnotic effect, and then he looked at the girl. She was golden, from the hair wound and braided so smoothly about her head, to the gold kid slippers on her small and fragile feet. Her dress, of some soft, glistening, silky stuff, was a deeper shade of the same gold, her soft, delicate skin seemed almost to be touched with a faint, powdery, golden dust. He failed to register, and never could recall, the color of her eyes. Perhaps, they were golden, too. All at once, he realized she was aware that he was staring at her, that she seemed faintly amused. He looked away and stammered something inadequate about the curious color of the drink in her glass. She smiled, a sweet radiant smile, and pushed the glass toward him.