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"Call for Alice Joyce!
By ADA PATTERSON
Alice, the fair Boniface of the Joyce hostelry. figuring that forty percent. Below, at the door of her hotel.
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EVERY morning when the sun has skirted the treetops of Central Park and shines generously upon the roofs of the houses and hotels in the nearest of the Seventy-second Street blocks, a fiock of pigeons flies to the same roof and preens and waits. The pigeons visit only this hotel. I know because I live in one of the neighboring hotels and witness the daily visit. They light and preen upon the roof of the Hotel Joyce for a sufficient and excellent reason. Alice Joyce, the owner of the hotel, has ordered that they be fed.
■ "Try crumbs and peanuts and wheat different mornings. Whichever they like best, feed them. Give them all they want of it every morning."
She is generous to persons as to pigeons. "Why haven't you put up awnings?" she asked the manager of the Hotel Joyce.
"Owing to the high cost of cotton their price is prohibitive. None of the hotels have awnings at all their windows. They furnish them only to the guests who pay for them. Besides, the summer isn't a hot one. Some prefer not to have the light shut out."
Her manager is plausible and persuasive. But his argument failed. "Put up screens at every window, please," said Miss Joyce.
The awnings appeared before every window of the Hotel Joyce and remained there until as summer receded there was no doubt that the full quota of sunshine would be welcome. She employed a housekeeper from a neighboring hotel. A poor housekeeper who tried to supplement her few deeds with many words. . She had received ten dollars a week at the neighboring hotel. It was more than she was worth. But Alice Joyce placed her name on
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the payroll opposite fifteen dollars a week.
"While the cost of living is so high that is the least I will pay a housekeeper," she insisted.
Since early last summer AHce Joyce has been an hotel keeper. Why? For two far different reasons. She is interested in the art of home-making, and knowing the homelessness of even the prosperous New Yorker, desired to change that condition. Another and cogent reason is that, being a good business woman, and she is such, she is not deaf to the sound of "forty percent a year."
Miss Joyce had been negotiating for a theatre of her own. Should she buy one of the many offered? Or would she build one? The problem engaged her mind between pictures. A friend of the family hearing her brother, Frank Joyce, mention the projected Alice Joyce theatre, said: "Why a theatre? Why not an hotel? A well kept hotel can be made to yield forty percent a year."
Miss Joyce bought the new twelvestory brick hotel at 31 West Seventyfirst Street. One hundred and fifty-three rooms snuggle cosily beneath its roof. Each is differently decorated, and furnished otherwise than its neighbors. "The sameness of hotel rooms detracts from their homelikeness," the fair Boniface says. "I want my hotel to be like a home." A Japanese conducts the restaurant, which is never closed.
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