"What of Lenin?"
"Very clever man. He tried hard for Bolshevik—but no good for everybody—just in the head."
I learn that she was educated in a convent and that she had lost all trace of her people. She earns her living singing here. She has been to the movies, but has never seen me. She "is go first chance because I am nice man."
I ask her if she would like to go into moving pictures. Her eyes light up.
"If I get opportunity I know I make success. But"—she curls her mouth prettily—"it's difficult to get opportunity."
She is just twenty years old and has been in the café for two weeks, coming there from Turkey, to which country she fled following her escape from Russia.
I explain that she must have photographic tests made and that I will try to get her a position in America. She puts everything into her eyes as she thanks me. She looks like a combination of Mary Pickford and Pola Negri plus her own distinctive beauty and personality. Her name is "Skaya." I write her full name and address in my book and promise to do all I can for her. And I mean to. We say "Good Night," and she says she feels that I will do what I say. How has she kept hidden?
Due at Sir Philip Sassoon's for a garden party the next day, I decide to go there in an aeroplane and I leave the Le Bourget aerodrome in Paris in a plane of La Compagnie des Messageries Aériennes, and at special request the pilot landed me at Lympne in Kent and I thereby avoided the crowd that would have been on hand in London.
It was quite thrilling and I felt that I made a very effective entrance to the party.
And what a delightful retreat! All the charm of an English country home, and Sir Philip is a perfect host. I get English food and treatment. I have a perfect rest, with no duties, and entertainment as I desire it. A day and a half that are most pleasant!