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Alone at Last With Helen Hayes 253
talent for being hectic. I guess I’ve got no temperament. I was reading Emma Calve’s book the other night. Her lover had written her that ‘all was over.’ And she got in a gondola and went up and down the streets of Venice all night singing at the top of her voice to relieve her agony. I don’t think I could do that.”
She curled up tighter on the sofa, sitting on her brown-silk little-girl legs, and adding what I hastened to write into the transcript word for word, saying to myself that I would show this note to my distinguished friend, critic and desk-mate, James Weber Linn, who says, and is not the only one who says, “No doubt, my dear Stevens, these beautiful women give you the facts; but the phrasing, the epigram, is your own.”
“One of the shames of my life,” she added, as she curled herself and pulled down the hem of her primly tailored skirt, “is that I have nothing to be ashamed of.
“I don’t know,” she was presently puzzling, “whether it is good policy for me to expose my blameless life.”
“You advertise your virtue ” I started to say.
“I reluctantly advertise my virtue ” she
interrupted to correct.
“By always being companioned by your mother. Although I must say that to-day she has ”
“To-day,” said Helen, “she was torn between her duty to me and the new flat. But since I’ve been so frank, I might as well go the whole distance and confess to you that even my mother has complete confidence in me — now. Yes, even my mother trusts me! A year ago she would not, she did not, leave us alone together. But here we are ! And I know,” she mourned, “the day is coming when my friends will leave me with their husbands, saying, ‘Helen, do take care of