physical vigor, and diplomacy. But above all
there was that sheer love of the game; the dramatic sense
that enabled her to see herself in the part. That alone
precluded the possibility of failure. She knew how youthful
she looked, and how glowing. She anticipated the look that
came into their faces when she left polite small-talk behind
and soared up into the cold, rarefied atmosphere of
business. She delighted in seeing the admiring and tolerant
smirk vanish and give way to a startled and defensive
attentiveness.

It might be mentioned that she managed, somehow, to spend
almost half a day in Petticoat Lane, and its squalid
surroundings, while in London. She actually prowled, alone,
at night, in the evil-smelling, narrow streets of the poorer
quarter of Paris, and how she escaped unharmed is a mystery
that never bothered her, because she had never known fear of
streets. She had always walked on the streets of Winnebago,
Wisconsin, alone. It never occurred to her not to do the
same in the streets of Chicago, or New York, or London, or
Paris. She found Berlin, with its Adlon, its appalling
cleanliness, its overfed populace, and its omnipresent
Kaiser forever scudding up and down Unter den Linden in his
chocolate-colored car, incredibly dull, and unpicturesque.
Something she had temporarily lost there in the busy
atmosphere of the Haynes-Cooper plant, seemed to have
returned, miraculously.

New York, on her return, was something of a shock. She
remembered how vividly fresh it had looked to her on the day