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49
A picture that was taken when Mr. and Mrs. Wooldridge visited Carrnel Myers on the "Ben-Hur" set
A Star Turns Reporter
The fourth of an unusual series of articles by this screen star, describing her impressions of "Picture-Play" writers.
By Carrnel Myers
I WAS fifteen minutes late. I stubbed my toe rushing up the flight of stairs. I discovered on the way that I had forgotten pad and pencil — inexcusable — and I was conscious of a certain weakness about the knees.
What a start!
In answer to my timid knock, the door was opened, and the scene that greeted me did much toward changing my panicky feelings — that scene of hominess and peace. What did I see ? This
A cozy room with table spread and inviting. Shaded lamps threw calm rays on decorative photographs of "our well-known stars," that hung on the wall. Savory odors pervaded the air. Warmth: Cheeriness.
"WELL, Well, well, well, Miss Myers !"
"Oh, my, I am so sorry I am late, but "
"Never mind, put your things here. You haven't met Mrs. Wooldridge, I believe?"
With small ceremonies over, I found myself seated at the cozy table, and talking of whatever one does talk of before dinner is well on the way.
With the advent of the chicken — done Southern style — I forgot that I had forgotten my working tools.
With the coming of the jellies and corn — done in some sort of pudding arrangement — I forgot that my knees had ever felt shaky. Everything was hotsy !
Mrs. Wooldridge is a sweet Southern woman, who still retains her lovely accent. She speaks fondly of the girls she has come in contact with through her work on the magazine, as "my girls." She has a habit of calling her husband "Baby lamb," which brings protests from that gentleman.
Mr. Wooldridge is a personable, affable chap with snapping eyes and a dry sense of humor, who delights in teasing Mrs. Wooldridge, and she — like the good little wife that she is — turns the other cheek.
I complimented her on her cooking, telling her it was like my own dear mother's, than which there is no higher compliment.
"She gathered up a lot of recipes while she was editing a woman's page," said Mr. W., winking at me.
"It was really a page of etiquette," corrected Mrs. W., just as I was reaching for the salad fork. You can imagine my reaction !
We spoke of picture folk and new recipes, of recent arrivals from foreign lands, and why wives should not call their husbands "Baby lamb." Of how their ranch of forty acres in San Joaquin Valley was getting along, and Wouldn't I please have just a little more chicken, the first was so small.
"Well," said I, accepting a second helping, "I am thankful for this assignment. Did you notice, Mr. Wool