Witching Hour' the other evening, and listen to muh: There is some class
to that show. Ain't you seen it? It's a song and dance about this mental
telepathy gag. There is a gambling gentleman who can tell a poker hand
every time. The only reason he ain't a heiress is because his conscience
jumps up and gives him a kick in the face. This party in the play
influences people's minds. He thinks of something, and people miles away
think of the same thing. All the same wireless. Take it from me, there's
a whole lot to it at that. I was out with a kind friend the other
evening whose general disposition is to try and make Frank Daniels look
like a spendthrift, so I knew it would be beer for mine unless I made a
great mental effort, so all the way up the street in the taxicab I just
held thumbs and concentrated my mind--I saw more new style hats,
too--and said to myself, 'For Heaven's sake, order wine,' 'Please loosen
up and order wine.' All to myself, you understand, never once out loud,
for though I am in the business I don't seek the reputation as a working
girl.

"Well I hope I may never look a lobster in the face again. No, I am not
speaking of this party. But I hope I may never look a lobster in the
face again if he didn't swell all up, prance into the eat hut and say
careless like over his shoulder to the waiter, 'A bottle of that Brut.'
Just like that. I tried the concentration gag on him for a pearl ring he
had on, thinking I had him under the gypsy curse, but there was a person
who had the nerve to call herself a lady who had been saying things
about me sitting at another table with a Harry who had led me to believe
that I was his own little Star of Hope, and I just couldn't get my mind
centered.

"Honest to goodness, I don't know what I'll do unless I find work. My
suite of apartments is reduced now to one hall room and a closet, and