“I daresay it will be all right by eleven, but anyway you must fetch me on foot if you can’t drive.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” replied her worthy friend, and off he drove. Miss Davis went to her dressing-room, feeling a perfect heroine for venturing forth, and when she was half ready there came a knock at the door.
“No performance to-night, miss.”
“What?”
“Only half the actors have turned up, and there isn’t a single man or woman in the theatre—pit empty, gallery empty, everything empty—so they’ve decided not to play Iris to-night. No one can see across the footlights.”
It was true; so remarkable was that particular fog, several of the playhouses had to shut-up-shop for the night. How Miss Davis got home remains a mystery.
A very beautiful actress of my acquaintance rarely has an engagement. She acts well, she looks magnificent, and has played many star parts in the provinces, yet she is constantly among the unemployed. “Why,” I once asked, “do you find it so difficult to get work?”
“Because I’m three inches too tall. No man likes to be dwarfed by a woman on the stage. In a ball-room the smaller the man the taller the partner he chooses, and this sometimes applies to matrimony, but on the stage never.”
“Can you play with low heels?” she is often asked when seeking an engagement.
“Certainly,” is the reply.