So I journeyed onward to tempt Fate, a little forlorn and frightened at first, but receiving so many courtesies and little kindnesses from my more fortunately placed fellow-travelers, that I quite forgot to be either frightened or forlorn—but was amazed at the beauty of the stately river we crossed, whose ripples caught the glowing color of the sky and broke them into jewels; and beyond that silvery curtain of haze stretched the great city of my dreams, all circled round and guarded by living waters.
Then I was ashore again and clambering into the great swaying coach of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the conductor having told me it was right next door to the theatre. I breakfasted, took from my bag a new gray veil, a pair of gray gloves, a bit of fresh ruffling, and a needle and thread, with which I basted the ruffle into the neck of my gown; put on the veil and gloves, that being all the preparation I could make by way of toilet to meet the arbiter of Fate, said "Our Father," and coming to "Amen" with a jerk, discovered I had not been conscious of the meaning of one single word, and whispering with shame, "only lip service," remorsefully repeated again, and with absolute sincerity, that prayer which expresses so simply, so briefly, all our needs, physical and spiritual; that places us at once in the comforting position of a beloved child asking with confidence for a father's aid. A prayer whose beauty and strength share in the immortality of its Divine composer.
And then I rose and went forth, prepared to accept success or defeat, just as the good Lord should will.
As I passed around the hotel and approached the theatre on Twenty-fourth Street, an enormous upheaval of ice blocked the way—ice piled shoulder high in front of the theatre door, and on one side of the glittering mass stood a long, tall, thin man, as mad as a hornet, while on the other side, stolidly, stupidly silent, stood a squat Irishman, holding an ice-man's tongs in one hand and his shock of red hair in the other. The long, flail-like arms of the tall man were in wild motion. In righteous wrath he was trying to make the bog-trotter understand that the ice was for the hotel, whose storage door was but a few feet to his right, when he saw me making chamois-like jumps over the blocks of ice trying to reach the door. With black-browed courtesy he told me to use the second door, that morning, to reach the box-office.
I had, all unconsciously, formed an idea of Mr. Daly, and I was looking for a small, dark, very dark, nervously irritable man, and was therefore frankly amused at the wrath of the long, thin man, whose vest and whose trousers could not agree as to the exact location of the waist-line, and laughed openly at the ice-scene, winning in return as black a scowl as any stage-villain could well wear. Then I cheerfully remarked: "I'm looking for Mr. Daly; can you tell me where I am likely to find him?"
"You want Mr. Daly?" he repeated. "Who are you?"
"I'll tell Mr. Daly that, please," I answered.
He smiled and said: "Well, then, tell me—I'm Mr. Daly—are you——"
"Yes," I answered, "I'm the girl come out of the West, to be inspected. I'm Clara Morris."
He frowned quickly, though he held out his hand and shook mine heartily enough, and asked me to come into his office.