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mimicked him from one polished brass American institution to another. And when he had desisted and my large audience wanted me to go on with my imitation, I had answered with precocious thrift for an actress of three:
“ ‘I’ll ’pit for a penny.’
“Hence the hat and the money. But you can imagine,” laughs Jane, “the job mother had trying to restore the gross receipts of my first public performance!”
Jane has acted it as she warms to her story — finding a new employment and disesteem for the gold chairs.
“It’s so funny my side hurts,” I say, when I stop laughing.
“It is funny,” Jane admits — “but of course you can’t write anything like that. So there,” she sighs hopelessly, “we are!
“That’s as unpublishable,” she goes on, “as my visit in Paris to the house of the famous actor De Max. I’d seen his wonderful performance; I’d seen him driving in the Bois with wonderful blue ribbons for lines; and nothing would do but that I, an ambitious votary in the theater, must be taken to him.
“So a man took me to the home of De Max, where a formal servant admitted us to the drawing room. And my God, Ashton, when De Max came to greet us he was naked! I give you my word of honor he had on nothing but a small leopard skin round his hips — not even leopard-skin pants! — just a small and loose leopard skin! You can imagine my feelings.”
“He was an informal guy,” I say, sympathetically.
“Informal is right,” says Jane. “Right then this French gentleman had his dinner brought in on a tray, and he ate it in front of us without asking us to