Take it from me, when I came in off the road that season I had a roll of the evergreen that looked like a bundle of hall carpet.

But now that I am an heiress I do not have to adopt those subterfuges in order to get the daily Java.  But I couldn’t work those stunts on my Wilbur; he’s too wise, and being in the business he’s hep to all that kind of work.

He’s a good, nice, honest fellow, as press agents go, and I think I can safely trust him with my innocent heart.

If he don’t—­well, you know me.  If he don’t think he run up against the business end of a cyclone it will be because I got throat trouble and can’t talk.

Honest, my fair young brow is commencing to get wrinkled trying to dope out whether I want to become a bride or lead the free and easy life of a bachelor girl.

Of course, if I get married and don’t like it divorces are easy enough to get, and then being a widow saves a girl a whole lot of embarrassment, for she don’t have to pretend to not understand some of the innuendoes that are now and then sprung during the modern conversations.

But, on the other hand, Wilbur isn’t there with a very big fresh air fund, and by perseverance I might cop out a Pittsburg millionaire and become famous.

Marriage is worse than a lottery; it’s a strong second for the show business.  You never can tell.

Wilbur sure does treat me nice—­he’s promised that I shall be a flower girl at the Friar Festival when it comes off in May.  Ain’t that nice of him?

Gee, but that’s going to be the grand doings.

Are you going to the ball?

Say, the round of festivities I am pulling off lately would make a person think I was a society bud.

Oh, come closer, listen.  A certain party wants me to go out in vaudeville.  What do you know about that?  Can you see me doing two-a-day and getting in a contest with Eva Tanguay or Vesta Victoria or the Russell Brothers.  I would go in a minute, though I promised mother when I quit burlesque that I would never again wear tights.

When I was in the business if I couldn’t get a job on my voice all I had to do was to flash a photo taken as Captain of the High Jinks Cadets, and then—­in a minute.

Flo.  Ziegfield made me all kinds of offers to go in the “Soul Kiss,” but the blondes were all full, and you can see me in a brindle wig?

I am willing to sacrifice nearly anything for Art, but when it comes to leaving nineteen dollars’ worth of puffs in a dressing room where you can’t pick your company, not for little Sabrina.

I used to have trouble enough with my number eighteen and lip stick and the bunch of near-lady kleptomaniacs that the manager made a great mistake taking on the road in the last show I was with.

Well, to get back to vaudeville, I don’t know whether to do a single turn or put on a big act with a dancing scene or a prizefight in it.  Those things go big nowadays.