Then Saturday Alla and I would do the great divide.
Take it from me, when I came in off the road that season I had a roll of the evergreen that looked like a bundle of hall carpet.
But now that I am an heiress I do not have to adopt those subterfuges in order to get the daily Java. But I couldn't work those stunts on my Wilbur; he's too wise, and being in the business he's hep to all that kind of work.
He's a good, nice, honest fellow, as press agents go, and I think I can safely trust him with my innocent heart.
If he don't—well, you know me. If he don't think he run up against the business end of a cyclone it will be because I got throat trouble and can't talk.
Honest, my fair young brow is commencing to get wrinkled trying to dope out whether I want to become a bride or lead the free and easy life of a bachelor girl.
Of course, if I get married and don't like it divorces are easy enough to get, and then being a widow saves a girl a whole lot of embarrassment, for she don't have to pretend to not understand some of the innuendoes that are now and then sprung during the modern conversations.
But, on the other hand, Wilbur isn't there with a very big fresh air fund, and by perseverance I might cop out a Pittsburg millionaire and become famous.
Marriage is worse than a lottery; it's a strong second for the show business. You never can tell.
Wilbur sure does treat me nice—he's promised that I shall be a flower girl at the Friar Festival when it comes off in May. Ain't that nice of him?