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Updated: May 13, 2025
Playing with you. You've been my ideal ever since I was a little g " then, warned by a certain icy mask slipping slowly over the brightness of Harrietta's features "ever so long, but I never even hoped " These young things always learned an amazing lot from watching the deft, sure strokes of Harrietta's craftsmanship. She was kind to them, too. Encouraged them.
They were dining together in Harrietta's little sitting room so high up and quiet and bright with its cream enamel and its log fire. Almost one entire wall of that room was window, facing south, and framing such an Arabian Nights panorama as only a New York eleventh-story window, facing south, can offer. Ken lifted his right eyebrow, which was a way he had when being quizzical.
"People wonder why actresses lie in bed until noon, or nearly. They have to, to get as much sleep as a stenographer or a clerk or a book-keeper. At midnight I'm all keyed up and over-stimulated, and as wide awake as an all-night taxi driver. It takes two solid hours of reading to send me bye-bye." The world did not interest itself in that phase of Harrietta's life.
And as he turned away a Young Thing with worshipful eyes crept up to Harrietta's side and said tremulously: "Oh, Miss Fuller, this is my first chance on Broadway, and may I tell you how happy I am to be playing with you? You've been my ideal ever since I was a for a long, long time."
Irish Mary looked like the mother of a girl who was earning five thousand a week. She was marcelled, silk-clad, rustling, gold-meshed, and, oh, how real in spite of it all as she beamed upon the dazzled Harrietta. "Out with ye!" trumpeted this figure, brushing aside Harrietta's proffered chair. "There'll be no stayin' here for you. You're coming along with me, then, bag and baggage."
Irish Mary, of course. Harrietta's maid, engaged for the trip, had failed her at the last moment. Now her glance rested on the two massive trunks and the litter of smart, glittering bags that strewed the room. A relieved look crept into her eyes. A knock at the door. A resplendent figure was revealed at its opening. The look in Harrietta's eyes vanished.
They were filming J. N. Gardner's novel, Romance of Arcady, but they had renamed it Let's Get a Husband. The heroine in the novel was the young wife of twenty-seven who had been married five years. This was Harrietta's part. In the book there had been a young girl, too a saccharine miss of seventeen who was the minor love interest. This was Lydia Lissome's part.
I saw her last month when she was playing in Cincinnati, and she doesn't look a day over twenty-one. That's a cute play she's in There and Back. Not much to it, but she's so kind and natural. Made me think of Jen a little." That was part of Harrietta's art making people think of Jen. Watching her, they would whisper: "Look! Isn't that Jen all over?
Harrietta thought of that camera now as a cruel Cyclops from whose hungry eye nothing escaped wrinkles, crow's-feet nothing. They had been working two months on the picture. It was almost finished. Midsummer. Harrietta's little bungalow garden was ablaze with roses, dahlias, poppies, asters, strange voluptuous flowers whose names she did not know.
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