Mary invited Laura Keene, the British actress, to tea. She is in her forties—rather pretty. Dressed in dark green velvet she suggested something of quality in the theatre. She has her own playhouse in New York City. Her talk was mostly about her acting days in London where she produced and acted in foreign and American plays.
She said that she is a friend of Taylor, the author of Our American Cousin. “He has written over a hundred plays,” she told us.
I spun a frontier story or two; she listened rather absently, her hands in her lap; Mary queried her about forthcoming New York productions; very abruptly Miss Keene exclaimed that she hated war; she said that slavery could have been abolished without destroying lives.
When Tad bounced in she made over him. He took to her, laughing hilariously over her British accent as she asked him to solve a riddle.
“Say it again, pretty lady,” he urged her.
“I’ve heard good things about Our American Cousin,” I said. “I guess you already know that we’ll be seeing the play tomorrow night.”
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