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Even as enthusiastic a patron of marriage as De Wolf Hopper would have the grace to feel a little diffident about facing the drama critics singing such sentiments when he had just taken on his fifth bride, who was young enough to be his daughter.
With Wolfie busy at rehearsals, I telephoned our friend Mrs. Derby Farrington. We were both devoted to her and called her by a pet name, BB. The theater fascinated her. One season she traveled with Wolfie's company. She was born Alice Miller Ramsdell, of Buffalo.
"BB," I said, "can you come over at once to the Algonquin? Got something important to tell you."
When she arrived I held up my hand with the ring on it.
"Oh, Elda— don't tell me! Does that mean what I think?"
"It sure does. I was married this morning."
"To— whom?" she faltered.
"To Wolfie."
"Oh no!" and she burst into tears. "Darling," she wailed, "do you know what you've done?"
"I think so. Why?"
"But— your age— Wolfie's older than your own father. What are people going to say?"
"What does it matter what they say? I love him." But instead of hearing happy good wishes I spent the rest of the day drying the tears of our friend BB.
That night we had a little wedding supper in Wolfie's rooms. Bayard Veiller came; he wrote Within the Law, and at one time had been Wolfie's press agent. Frank Case was there, with Bertha Grayson, who later became Mrs. Case. We could depend on these friends not to let the news leak out. Wolfie cracked a bottle of champagne, told wonderful stories, and sang scraps from Gilbert and Sullivan.
Together BB and I went to the opening of Iolanthe. Wolfie was a great hit. He never turned a hair (How could he? He didn't have any) when he came to those telltale lines, though he did have that sly look which should have warned all and sundry that he was getting away with something special.
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