er power. It was good to get, once again,
little glimpses of her Childs waitress and the chambermaid. It seemed
to me that there was a richer quality of atmosphere in the little
Jewish girl with the ring curls and the red mittens, as also in her
French girl with, by the way, a beautiful gown of rich yellow silk
Frenchily trimmed in vermilion or orange, I couldn't make out which.
The amusing French girl, who having picked up many fag-ends of English
from her experience with the _soldats Americains_--got her "animals"
mixed--"you have my goat, I have your goat, et--tie ze bull outside,"
and so on. I am crossing Irene and Fay here because I think them
similar, only I must say I think the magic was greater in Fay, because
possibly Fay was the greater student of emotion. Fay had the
undercurrent, and Irene has perfected the surface. If Irene did study
Fay at any time, and I say this respectfully, she perhaps knows that
Fay went many times to Paris to study Rejane. The light entertainer
is, as we know, very often a person of real intellect.

If you want distinction, then, you will get it in the presence of Ella
Shields. Her "Burlington Bertie" is nothing less than a chef
d'oeuvre; "Tom Lipton, he's got lots of 'oof--he sleeps on the roof,
and I sleep in the room over him." Bertie, who, having been slapped on
the back by the Prince of Wales (and some others) and asked why he
didn't go and dine with "Mother," replied--"I can't, for I've just had
a banana with Lady Diana.... I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow." Miss
Shields shows also that she can sing a sentimental song without
slushing it all over with saccharine. She has mastered the droll
English quality of wit with real perfection. I regret I never saw
Vesta Tilley, with whom the old tops compare her so favourably. Superb
girls all these, Fay, Ella, Cissie, Vesta, as well as Marie Lloyd, and
the other inimitable Vesta--Victoria.

Among the "coming soon," we have Miss Juliet, whom I recall with so
much pleasure from the last immemorable Cohan Revue. I wait for her. I
consider myself fortunate to be let in on James Watts. We thought our
Eddy Foy a comic one. He was, for I remember the Gibson girl with the
black velvet gown and the red flannel undershirt. I swing my swagger
stick in the presence of Mr. Watts by way of applause. His art is very
delicately understood and brought out. It has a fine quality of broad
caricature with a real knowledge of economy such as Grock is master