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tailored in soft bronze wool and her high-held head hatted Parisianly with fluff and feathers of the same hue.
“I had made an appointment to have it cut,” she went on, “when in walked Mr. Selwyn, all the way from New York, to ask me how I should like to come back to the stage.
“ ‘The stage?’ I said — ‘why, I’m just going to have my hair bobbed. Everybody’s doing it.’
“‘For God’s sake, don’t!’ screamed Mr. Selwyn. ‘We’ll need it in the production. You wouldn’t be you without your hair.’ And he told me his plans for ‘The Circle,’ and how he wanted me to co-star with Mr. John Drew.”
“You had quite retired from the stage?”
“Yes; but unwillingly; and cutting my hair would have severed the last tie.”
“You say unwillingly?”
“I never retired from the stage — it was you newspaper boys who retired me,” she declared without resentment ; and that amiable designation of the critics was the only token of elderliness that I detected in the speech of Mrs. Carter, wishing, as she said it, that William Winter could have lived a few years longer to have heard her call him one of the “boys.”
“You boys wrote so much about my retirement that presently I found myself retired,” she smiled, lifting a reproachful hand. “But what matter! I was contented in Paris, where I had a pleasant home and where a dog is not treated like a dog but like a human being.”
“Really?”
“Yes; you wouldn’t know Paris since the war. The dog now rules Paris.”