They did fight, and the newspapers printed columns about it, for it was a great story, but they didn’t print the part I am telling here, for that they didn’t know. With the articles appeared her portraits, and she became as well known as The Man had been, in a way.
Before the finish had been reached the heirs concluded there had better be a settlement, and so, rather than stand the delay of appeals in case she won, which it was reasonably sure she would do, she accepted $150,000 in cash.
The next day her maid brought her a card. It read:
“Alfred D. Cohen,
Theatrical Promoter.”
“I’ll see him,” she said.
She had learned a thing or two since she had left Philadelphia, so she knew what was coming and was prepared for it when the polite, suave Mr. Cohen walked into the room.
“I have come,” he said, by way of introduction, “to make you an offer to go on the stage.”
“Yes?” she queried, calmly.
“All you will have to do is to sing two or three songs twice a day—once in the afternoon and once in the evening—and I am authorized to offer you $750 a week.”
“And suppose I can’t sing?” she said, smiling, thinking of the last time she had talked with a manager.