The way I caper from one tribulation to another would make a sick woman
out of far stronger than me. Yes, I have at last found a man that loves
me for myself alone. He's a press agent, and he hands it out so sincere
that I know he must mean part of it. He's going to buy me an engagement
ring as soon as he gets his expense account. He's with a Broadway
musical comedy, and though he has run some of the girls' pictures, he
has not made the slightest advance toward any of them.

He's been coming to see me for nearly a month. My heart went out to him
the minute he said he had a stand in with three city editors.

Us actresses never get over our theatrical training. He's a quiet party,
and instead of hanging about the Knickerbocker bar with the rest of the
agents, he stays in the office and pounds out copy. He gave me a
beautiful silk parasol that I know didn't cost him less than four pairs
of seats. And all this before he asked me for my hand in marriage.

Honest, I'll never forget the night he proposed as long as I live. Not
that I never was proposed to before, and some of them would have had me
starred, but the romantic surroundings and all that kind of thing. It
was this way: Me and him were the guests at a beefsteak party, and after
the fourth drink he commenced to show me marked attention, and when we
got out of the cab in front of my hotel he offered to help me upstairs,
though I generally have a bellboy for that purpose, and when we had got
up in my apartment and Estelle had gone to give the bellhop a quarter
and the pitcher, he popped the question, and such beautiful language, I
remembered it the next morning and wrote it down.

He held my shrinking little hand in his and said, "Say, Kid, you've made
an awful good showing with me. Believe it, I could plant your stuff all