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When Justine Johnstone Was Natural 237
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “an actor — one who could be helpful ”
“Love an actor! Haven’t I just told you I couldn’t even love a man? Actor! No! Absolutement !”
It was her favorite positive word.
We were in one of a cluster of rooms she occupied with her mother at the Blackstone. And she was happy to-day, she said, because mother’s cough was less troublesome and the sun was bright and her candy tasted good.
Something always was coming up to the living room — flowers in vases, flowers in pots, a fatted flask that looked like the “pinch” bottle of Scotland, but contained only the essence of flowers, a rabbit gorged with Easter sweets, and finally a scarf that was made of the capsular bodies of twenty perfect imperial Russian sables.
She talked of furs and furbelows with a frank and engaging relish. Didn’t I like the chinchilla coat she wore in the show — the one called Kerenski by the unstoppable Ed Wynn? Well, its illustrious maker, Richard Jaeckel, had been in Chicago and had come twice to the Garrick that week. Fancy!
“A compliment, indeed!” said I.
“But not for me,” she laughed. “Mr. Jaeckel came to see his coat.
“I dote on saving money,” she was telling me in another breath. “I save up lots and lots of it — and then some beautiful furs come along and take it all away.”
“Have you always had a passion for furs?”
“Oh, no. There was a time in my life when I thought furs were only the things that well-to-do people wore to keep warm in. As a child I was poor