The self-enchanted : Mae Murray : image of an era (1959)

marine; they hadn't even sensed the danger. It was only later that they realized they could have shared the fate of the Lusitania. The dances from Paris won Mae a place in Her Little Highness, and it was while she was dancing the Maxixe in this show that Sabin had spotted her for the Sans Souci. It was a good showcase, this cabaret; all the fashionables came; the Castles had danced here just before they opened in Watch Your Step; and for two months now, she'd had her first chance to be seen, not as one of many in a show but one girl with three men to alternate as partners. A growing murmur, the band tuning, the clink of ice. She made a small pirouette before the mirror and lifted her foot in its Capezio shoe, tightly laced above the ankle. She had twelve pairs; and Lucille, the great Lucille of 57th Street, made all her clothes. How could you expect to register in the consciousness of people unless you were different? Unless you registered you didn't exist. She stepped into her full crisp skirts and Jenny hooked her jacket. Her hat with its red flower was moved a trifle over one brow. "Now go on," Jenny said. "You look a fine bird." She laughed, hearing the opening bars of her introduction, running out. "Mae Murray!" Someone grabbed and stopped her, a thin man, electric-eyed. "Do you know me? I'm Irving Berlin." She had seen him one night at Murray's Restaurant. Her escort had pointed out the curly-haired fellow with Caruso, George M. Cohan and Sam Harris. "But I'm on now, Mr. Berlin!" "I've seen you dance here at the Sans Souci," he whispered urgently. "You must come with me, we need you, Irene is ill." He pulled her along the corridor to Sabin's office. "Mr. Dillingham'll make it up to you," he told the owner. He talked a torrent she found it hard to follow, but Sabin