s all. On
that first night he had said: "Good Lord, Will, what is that girl doing
out here in the West? I must see her in a better part. What's on
to-morrow night? Secure our seats for the season, that will save a lot
of trouble;" and incidentally it made a lot of annoyance for me.

Next night I played what actresses call a "dressed part," which, in spite
of suggestion, does not mean that there are parts that are not dressed,
only that the character wears fine clothes instead of plain ones. It was
a bright, light comedy part. The audience was enthusiastic, though, of
course, I was only supporting the star. Then Mr. Worthington exclaimed:
"That girl ought to be in New York this very moment!"

"Do you think so?" questioned his inseparable.

"Do I think so?" mocked his cousin. "Yes, I know it. I know the theatres
foreign--their schools and styles, as well as I know the home theatres
and their actors. I believe I've made a discovery!"

A beautiful mass of flowers came to me that night with Mr. Worthington's
visiting card, without message. The third night I played a tearful part;
the papers (as the women put it) "went on awful," and Mr. Worthington,
snapping his glasses into their case, said, as he rose: "I shall never
rest till this Clara Morris faces New York. She need clash with no one,
need hurt no one, she is unlike anyone else, and New York has plenty of
room for her. I shall make it my business to meet her some way or other,
and preach New York until she accepts the idea and acts upon it."

His visit to Cincinnati was prolonged; his young cousin, Mr. Will
Burnett, thought he was on the high-road to crankiness on the subject.
Then Mr. Worthington discovered we had a common friend in lawyer Egbert
Johnson, and he was presented in proper form to my mother (oh, wise Mr.
Worthington), and winning her approval by praise of her wonderful chick
(where is the mother that does not readily believe her goose a swan?),
she in her turn presented him to me, and for the first time I listened to
a suggestion of coming to New York.

To say I was amused at the idea would be putting it mildly indeed, for I
was tickled to such laughter that tears came to my eyes. He was annoyed,
but I laughed on. He waited--I was called upon for some heavy tragic
parts. He came again--I laughed still.

"Good heavens!" I cried, "I'm not pretty enough!"

He said: "You have your eyes and voice and expression, and you don't seem
to be suffering much h