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Actorviews
“Well,” I answered, “there’s Charles Collins of the Chicago Evening Post; he’s been disbarred from certain local theaters for several years now. So every night there’s an opening at the Garrick or the Studebaker or the Princess he sits him down and wrrites a short story and sells it to the Saturday Evening Post, or Harper’s Bazaar, or the Red Book for a thousand dollars.”
“My God,” she thrilled, “if it’s that profitable, I hope they never let Jimmie in!”
She was pretty as a pomegranate, with her fair hair waved up and back, her hazel eyes frolicking under her broad brow, her thirty-six perfect cream teeth dancing behind her broad, plastic mouth; she was live as the unclouded morning. And wrhen we had talked about good Arthur Byron and about wicked “Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife” — in which they share the stellar distinction at the Shubert-Garrick, where the bar on Whittakers does not include Jimmie’s wife — we talked about the ideal comedy for Ina.
“It could be written,” I told her, “on your own secret honeymoon here in Chicago. What a comedy of love and lies and youth and — naughty appearances!”
“We had to lie,” she comically protested. “I simply couldn’t be domestic — then. It would have been too publicly terrible. Fancy domesticity and ‘The Gold Diggers’! I came on here for my vacation vowing I wouldn’t marry Jimmie. He told me that he had made all the arrangements, that he had gone out on the North Side and selected the city’s most respectable apartment in a little by-street as innocent as Pomander Walk. ‘But,’ I said, ‘I haven’t come to marry you this time, Jimmie; perhaps some other time, but not now.’ At which he shoved me into a hired auto