When I was a little girl in short skirts they were members of a répertoire company which played our town during County Fair week. The répertoire comprised such good old timers as The Two Orphans, the Danites, East Lynne, the Silver King, Streets of New York, Camille and The Ticket-of-Leave Man. Mrs. Dingley was the leading lady and her husband the utility man. She was my ideal of a heroine—in those days. Her hair was very golden, and as the weepy heroine she wore a black velvet dress with a long train. That black velvet (later experience told me it was velveteen) played many parts. It was a princess, and for evening wear the guimpe had only to be removed. Or, when the heroine was ailing, as becomes a persecuted woman, the princess, with the help of a full front panel, was converted into a tea-gown. Again, it was used as a riding habit, draped up on one side and topped by husband's silk hat wound round with a veil. With a good deal of crêpe drapery from the bonnet, the same gown passed muster as widow's weeds. Mentally, I resolved that when I became an actress I should have just such a prestidigital gown in my wardrobe.
By dint of hard work on Mrs. Dingley's part and unmitigated nerve on the part of her husband they had finally arrived on Broadway. They had recently acquired a large house in the older part of the city and I understood it was Mrs. Dingley's idea to establish a salon. Certainly she was successful in drawing a crowd. The house was strikingly furnished. There was much gold furniture and antique bric-à-brac; canopied beds and monogrammed counterpanes. After a personally conducted tour of the house and an enlightening dissertation upon the real worth of and prices paid for the fittings, one retained a confusing sense of having had an exercise in mental arithmetic.
It seemed rather catty of the women to make fun of the Dingleys behind their back and at the same time accept their hospitality. Two smart looking women whom I recognized as members of Mrs. D's. company appeared to get no little amusement out of the coat of arms on Mrs. Dingley's bed. "Why didn't they purloin a beer-stein, quiescent on a japanned tray?" I heard one say.
"Or a Holstein bull rampant on a field of cotton," the other giggled.
I failed to grasp the significance of their remarks, though I saw the humour in their allusion to the empty book-shelves which lined the walls of the library. "Why not buy several hundred feet of red-backed books, like a certain politician who wanted to fill up the wall space in his library?"
"Pshaw! It would be cheaper to use props," scoffed the other.
I myself thought a dictionary and a few grammars a sensible beginning, as Mrs. Dingley was a veritable Mrs. Malaprop. Later I committed a faux pas, though I meant no offense. In my effort to say something nice to my hostess I remarked that I had seen her years ago during the early days of her struggle and that I had been one of her ardent admirers. The way she said, "Yes?" with the frosty inflection made me understand she did not care to remember her beginnings.
While we were drinking tea out of priceless cups—the history of which was being retailed by our host—there was a commotion and a craning of necks toward the stairs. The hostess hurried forward to greet the late arrival. There was considerable nudging and innuendo exchanged as a small pleasant-faced man with a Van Dyke beard entered the room. Our host greeted him jovially, almost boisterously. "Here comes the king—here comes the king!" hummed the two actresses, winking significantly at me. There was a buzz of voices while Mrs. Dingley paraded the lion of the occasion about the room with an air of playful proprietorship. The little man had a penchant for pretty girls and flattery. He got both. Everybody fawned on him, Mr. Dingley laboured heroically to be witty. My curiosity finally drove me to ask my neighbours who the little man was.
"Is he a manager, or a producer, or?—?" I whispered.
There was a peal of laughter before I was answered.