It was a cranny in the wall. It held a very small desk and one chair, behind which was a folding stool. As he entered, I laughingly said: "I think I'll lean here, I'm not used to sitting on the floor," but to my surprise, as he brought forth the stool, he curtly replied: "I was not going to ask you to sit on the floor," which so amused me that I could not resist asking: "Are you from Scotland, by chance, Mr. Daly?" and he had frowningly said "No!" before the old, old joke about Scotch density came to him.
Then he said, with severity: "Miss Morris, I'm afraid your bump of reverence is not well developed."
And I laughed and said: "There's a hole there, Mr. Daly, and no bump at all," and though the words were jestingly spoken, there was truth and to spare in them, and there, too, was the cause of all the jolts and jars and friction between us in our early days together. Mr. Daly was as a god in his wee theatre, and was always taken seriously. I knew not gods and took nothing under heaven seriously. No wonder we jarred. Every word I spoke that morning rubbed Mr. Daly's fur the wrong way. I offended him again and again. He wished to show me the theatre, and, striking a match, lit a wax taper and held it up in the auditorium, at which I exclaimed: "Oh, the pretty little match-box! Why, it's just a little toy play-house—is it not?"
Which vexed him so I was quite crushed for a minute or two. One thing only pleased him: I could not tear myself away from the pictures, and I praised, rapturously, a beautiful velvety-shadowed old engraving. We grew quite friendly over that, but when we came to business he informed me I was a comedy woman, root and branch.
"But," I said, "ask Mr. Edwin Booth, or Mr. Davenport, or Mr. Adams!"
He waved me down. "I won't ask anyone," he cried; "I never made a mistake in my life. You couldn't speak a line of sentiment to save your soul!"
"Why, sentiment is my line of business—I play sentiment every week of my life," I protested.
"Oh, you know what I mean," he said, "you can speak and repeat the lines, but you couldn't give a line of sentiment naturally to save your life—your forte is comedy, pure and simple."
It all ended in his offer to engage me, but without a stated line of business. I must trust to his honor not to degrade me by casting me for parts unworthy me. He would give me $35 a week (knowing there were two to live on it), if I made a favorable impression he would double that salary.
A poor offer—a risky undertaking. I had no one to consult with. I had in my pocket the signed contract for $100 in gold and two benefits. I must decide now, at once. Mr. Daly was filling up a blank contract. Thirty-five dollars against $100! "But if you make a favorable impression you'll get $70," I thought. And why should I not make a favorable impression? Yet, if I fail now in New York, I can go West or South, not much harmed. If I wait till I am older, and fail, it will ruin my life.