Good-byes here are rather joyous, because we are all getting off in the same land and there will be an opportunity to see one another again.
My little friend comes to me excitedly and gives me a present—a silver stamp box. "I hope that when you write your first letter you take a stamp from here and mail it to me. Good-bye."
She shakes hands. We are real lovers and must be careful. She tells me not to overwork. "Don't forget to come and see us; you must meet daddy. Good-bye, Charlie."
She curtsies and is gone. I go to my cabin to wait until we can land. There is a tiny knock. She comes in.
"Charlie, I couldn't kiss you out there in front of all those people. Good-bye, dear. Take care of yourself." This is real love. She kisses my cheek and then runs out on deck.
Easthope Martin is with us that night at Goldwyn's party. He plays one of his own compositions and holds us spellbound. He is very grateful for our sincere applause and quite retiring and unassuming, though he is the hit of the evening.
Following the dinner I carried the English movie folk on a sight-seeing trip, enjoying their amazement at the wonders of a New York night.
"What do you think of it?" I asked them.
"Thrilling," says Hepworth. "I like it. There is something electrical in the air. It is a driving force. You must do things."
We go to a café, where the élite of New York are gathered, and dance until midnight. I bid them good-bye, hoping to meet them later when they come to Los Angeles.