"But, Jimmie," she protested, "Jimmie, supposin' you became a gr-r-e-at mon, supposin' you became a great lion, with your pictures in all the papers—and adornin' the fences ... then, Jimmie, how'll they know you're me son?" ...
It was at a matinée that I first saw Will in his new part. It was the first time since our marriage that I had not heard his lines or helped him with his costumes. He had told me all about the play, and I knew the cue for his first entrance almost as well as he himself. My heart thumped so hard and fast I feared my neighbour would guess who I was. His entrance was greeted with a burst of gloved applause, accompanied with such exclamations as, "There he is!" "Isn't he a love!" ... "Just wait until you see how he can make love!" I confess I hardly knew whether to be proud, or indignant. The familiarity with which they discussed him grated on me; I resented the proprietary tone. Then I smiled at my silliness, for I realized that this very interest made for popularity, the most valuable of the actor's assets. I listened to the gush of the matinée girls, and their discussion of the private lives of theatrical people with a good deal of amusement.
Coming out of the theatre, I heard one woman ask another whether Will was married. I wondered what difference that would make in his popularity.
After the matinée I went back to Will's dressing-room. Will had planned what he called a little junket. We were to dine together at a restaurant—a pleasure we could not often afford. While Will washed up I told him the nice things I had overheard. I predicted he would become a veritable matinée idol—a term which he scorned. There were some letters lying on his make-up table. I picked them up idly; Will followed my action.
"Read them," he said. "You'll be amused. They are my first mash-notes." There was so much roguishness in his smile that I laughed back at him. Some of the letters were innocent enough, written in girlish hand, with requests for autographs and autographed photographs. One or two asked Will's advice about going on the stage, and there was one from a tooth-powder firm, wanting the right to use Will's picture in which his teeth showed. There was one—a violet-scented note on fine linen, written in the large loose vertical scrawl so much affected by smart women—without signature. It ran as follows:
"If you will pardon this somewhat unconventional method of making your acquaintance, my dear Mr. Hartley, I shall be most happy to have you join me at tea, after the matinée, at Sherry's (other drinkables not excluded). I was present at the opening night of your play, and was quite carried away by your splendid acting. Where did you learn to make love? I have occupied the right hand proscenium box every Saturday matinée since the opening. Isn't that a proof of my devotion? Do I flatter myself that I have caught your eye once or twice as the curtain falls? I invariably dress in black and wear gardenias. If you are interested, you will have no difficulty in identifying me. For family reasons I withhold my name for the present. Do come, Mr. Hartley."
As I folded the letter and replaced it in its cover, I recalled that Will had glanced towards the right hand proscenium box several times.
"I think I'll put you on a car and send you home," began Will, but something in his voice belied his words, and I made him an impudent moué. "How do you like being married to a matinée idol?" Will asked, giving the final touch to his dress.
I did not reply; I was asking myself the same question.