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W. C. Fields
byways of his mind prevented anything so simple as asking for a phone number; he had to resort to something devious. Two days later, he sent a writer they both knew to pick her up and take her riding after work. By an elaborate, unconvincing accident, the man made a beeline for Fields' place and said, "Well, what do you know ! We're right here next to old Bill Fields'. Why don't we drop in and say hello?"
Such was the surprising nature of their visit that Fields had assembled a fancy cocktail spread and was waiting on the lawn, all dressed up. He came forward with characteristically hollow expressions of amazement, meanwhile making energetic signals to a butler he had secreted in the shrubs. The party got under way. By another coincidence, the writer shortly recalled that an aunt of his was about to undergo an operation for eczema and he left for the hospital.
Miss Monti and Fields hit it right off. He was attracted to her because of her good looks, her ebullience and her generous nature, though his face fell slightly when he learned that she was an ardent spiritualist. She, on their second meeting, glanced at him suddenly and exclaimed, "Why, you look like a little Woody!" (rhymes with "moody"), an indescribable denizen or object known only to Miss Monti and her God. She has no hints as to the origin of this term; the comparison must simply be put down as one of those divinations that come to those in communication with the spirit world. In any case, Fields agreed that his resemblance to a Woody was, in fact, strong, and the amenities flourished. The friendship between the comedian and Miss Monti — warm, fitful, therapeutic — was of great benefit to both of them. On her side, she gained an education that is denied to all but the privileged few, in addition to being mentioned in his will, and he found in her a dedicated attendant who stuck unselfishly by him until the sad, bitter end.
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