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Updated: June 19, 2025


I have no distinct recollections of how I came away, but presently, back at the Players, I was confiding the matter to Charles Harvey Genung, who said he was not surprised; but I think he was. It was true, after all; and on Tuesday morning, January 9, 1906, I was on hand with a capable stenographer, ready to begin.

Did you know that Mathilde Herold and Adele Genung are keeping a tea-house this summer, to earn enough money for their senior year? And they have done surprisingly well. Yes, their folks have a summer place near the tea-house, so the girls go home nights, and of course the place must be very pretty Tillie is an artist in decorating." "Splendid!" exclaimed Gertrude. "Of course I know Tillie.

"Tell him to study Genung on clearness," suggested Beatrice, flippantly. "Don't, Beatrice," broke in Dorothy. "This is evidently a serious matter. I should tell him that you didn't know what he meant by his letter, Frances, and of course explain why you haven't written before." "Will you two stay while I write it?" asked Frances. "I should never dare to take the responsibility alone."

To Charles Harvey Genung, who sat next to me, I whispered something of this, and how during the thirty-six years since then no one had meant to me quite what Mark Twain had meant in literature and, indeed, in life. Now here he was just across the table. It was a fairy-tale come true. Genung said: "You should write his life."

To my happiness, he told me that long-ago incident the stray leaf from Joan's life, blown to him by the wind which had led to his interest in all literature. Then presently I was with Genung again and he was still insisting that I write the life of Mark Twain.

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