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as big as Lady Tree’s “Autobiography,” which she proceeded to recite at full length :
“ This is the life of little me:
I am the wife of Beerbohm Tree.”
And I remarked her choppy, brittle English, and she remarked our sloppy, “r”-ful American.
“I say over the telephone, ‘Please give me the dark,’ and the operator says, ‘You mean the clerk.’ I ask her to send up a vawse for flowers, and she says I mean a vace.”
And she told me of a new play in which she may appear, if she doesn’t come to Chicago with Miss Taylor in her original role in “Out There.” It is a new play that she thinks she would suit if the author will only consent to change a line which remarks the fatal beauty of the heroine.
“We couldn’t keep that in,” she said, quite calmly.
“Why not? Aren’t you — pardon my professional bluntness — a very good-looking girl?”
“Not very.”
“You don’t mean to say ?”
“No, no — not that I’m homely. I am,” she said, quizzically, “rather picturesque, in a gauche and angular way. With lots of trouble, with infinite care in the choice of clothes, I contrive to look smart.”
She looked impeccantly smart to the undiscerning eye of the male, with soft lace at the neck and cuffs of her severe one-piece tailor suit, which was English tailoring, no doubt, but English tailoring that fitted painlessly, which is to say that it neither hiked nor humped.
But who am I to tell you what a stunning girl has on ? I only know that she was stunning — and that she likes American humor. No! I’m not flattering myself .