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Actoriiews
on the veil-like stuff at her neck. But my poor powers of description crumble. I can only say that to an outsider Mrs. Manners would have appeared widowesque — that an optimistic soul might have said that her costume symbolized Hope.
It was very young black, but no younger, I swear, than the pale, animate, big-eyed, little-girl face on which the sun shone this perfect day in June.
I picked out a young show. I took her to Orchestra Hall, my favorite picture palace, to see Jackie Coogan in “Peck’s Bad Boy.” But we were too old for that. Mammas were reading the titles aloud to children. We moved from the right to the left side of the house, and still mammas were reading aloud.
“I don’t believe Irvin Cobb wrote all those titles,” said Miss Taylor, giving Mr. Cobb the benefit of the doubt. “What do you say,” she suggested, “if we go and see Mary Pickford?”
I said “Fine!” and we went — to one of those ambiguous picture places on the north side of Madison street, where there’s but one musician in the orchestra and sometimes he’s not there. We went and saw and relished Mary Pickford in “Through the Back Door.” And Miss Taylor laughed and sighed when Miss Pickford’s young man ran from her directly she told him the little Belgian children were “hers” — laughed and sighed and provokingly said on the end of the sigh : “All men respect a mother!”
I forget what it provoked — but let’s hope it wasn’t too respectful.
I remember her answer. Her answer was a detachment in which she praised Mary Pickford and said that if “Peg” were to be screened for any actress but herself she’d like to see Miss Pickford do it.
“But you’ll play Peg for the pictures yourself?”