then such personal
magnetism that he stands out in my recollection as clearly as any one I
have ever met, though he was then only a young fellow and unknown to
fame. His name was Douglas Fairbanks and his ambition was to go on the
stage. He said as we neared England: "Well, some day we'll read,
'Conried of the Metropolitan Opera House presents Miss Kathleen Howard,'
and 'Charles Frohman presents Mr. Douglas Fairbanks.'" His prophecy,
which I recall even to the spot on the boat where he made it, and the
expression of his eyes which matched mine at that moment, has almost
been fulfilled.

I reached Paris in the beginning of September with "my instrument" in
working order, with a smattering of French, a letter of credit for
$1000, and a large supply of courage. I found my voice adequate to all
my demands upon it, but the money just half enough (it was increased
the next year). As for my courage, I have had to go on renewing that
ever since, until it has become the largest factor in my success. Emma
Juch told me once that she always said it was not difficult to attain
success and make a career. Perhaps her success was made at a time when
the competition was less keen, but I at any rate could never agree with
her.

I arrived in Paris early in the morning and went to a small hotel in the
rue Cambon. It quite thrilled me to ask the chambermaid for _eau chaude_
instead of "hot water"; and I felt proud of knowing that the midday meal
was called _dejeuner a la fourchette_. I remember that meal to this
day--it began with radishes and butter, those inseparable companions in
France, went on to omelette, then cold meat and salad, with small
clingstone peaches and little white grapes for dessert. Red or white
wine was "_compris_," and the bread was a yard long, cut half through
into sections, and laid down the middle of the table. It was all
half-miraculous to me, and afterwards when I went out to stroll under
the arches of the rue de Rivoli I thought myself in fairyland. The
jewelry, lingerie and photograph shops delighted me, as they have
innumerable tourists, and the name "Redfern" over a doorway gave me a
thrill. The Place de la Concorde seemed one of the most beautiful places
I had ever seen, an opinion which I still hold, by the way, and I felt
like a queen when I called an open _fiacre_ and drove in state toward
the Arc de Triomphe, stopping to buy a big bunch of red roses for twenty
cents from a ragged man who ran shouting