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ture and I have ceased to dine beyond my means, I must, positively must, know her bosom friend and associate actress, Miss Lynn Fontanne, who would soon be coming along to the Studebaker Theater in “A Pair of Petticoats.”
“You will love each other,” she said with an enthusiasm that sounded almost prophetic. “But you
mustn’t But of course, you wouldn’t squeeze a
girl’s hand now — at your time of life !”
Cyril Harcourt, who wrote the delectable petticoat comedy, took me to Miss Fontanne, cursing Britishly the unsweetness of the alley that led to the stage door. It was a devil of a path, said he, for gentlemen of breed and learning — what?
Again he cursed the muck of the alley. “I’m no bloomin’ Verlaine,” he said, quickly following it with, “Of course, you’re not! — Not quick enough then, Stevens; I had to say it for you!”
He introduced me to Norman Trevor, who shares his dressing room and is so much like Trevor’s acting that I shall never be able to tell you where the mime leaves off and the man begins.
Mr. Harcourt was for organizing a select and patriotic party to go out to the park and smear the yellow paint of disesteem all over a certain statue there that has the tactless untimeliness to be German. But just then we ran into Miss Fontanne, who had barely time to ask me to tea on the morrow — and as these words are written the German statue still stands unstained, although I don’t fancy Lloyds’ is writing any insurance on its complexion.
But this is a long way round to Miss Fontanne, who was in her living room at the Stratford next day,