the theatres let out. The street was fairly deserted. Suddenly she was
accosted by a strange gentleman of suave address. Obviously he had
dallied with the demon and was spectacularly the worse for it. He was
carrying an enormous, a very beautiful - and a very expensive - bouquet.
In a short speech of an impassioned eloquence and quite as flowery as
his tribute, he presented her with the bouquet. She tried to avoid
accepting it. But this was not, without undue publicity, to be done.
Finally to put an end to the scene, she bore off her booty. She has
often wondered what actress was deprived of her over-the-foot-lights
trophy by the sudden freak of an exhilarated messenger.

I know that the Native Son works and works hard. The proof of that is
California itself. San Francisco twice rebuilt, the progressive city of
Los Angeles, all the merry enterprising smaller California cities and
towns. But, somehow, he plays so hard at his work and works so hard at
his play that you are always wondering whether it's all the time he
works or all the time he plays. At any rate, out of his work comes
gaiety and out of his play seriousness. His activities are so many that
when I try to make my imagined program of his average day, I should
provide one not of twenty-four hours, but of seventy-two.

I imagine him going down to his office at about nine in the morning,
working until noon as though driven by steam and electricity; then
lunching with a party of Native Sons, all filled with jocund japeful
joshing Native Son humor which brims over in showers of Native Son wit.
I imagine him returning to an afternoon of brief but concentrated
strenuous labor, then going for a run in the Park, or tennis, or golf,
ending with a swim; presenting himself fine and fit at his club at
first-cocktail time. I imagine him dining at his club or at a restaurant
or at a stag-dinner, always in the company of other joyous Native Sons;