an, a music
dealer, said to him: "Mr. Smith, I wish you to settle a question for me.
My wife and I are at variance. We saw 'Camille' last night, and my wife,
who has seen it several times in New York, insisted that that beautiful
little cat-scene belongs to the play and is always done; while I am
sure I never saw it before, and several of my customers agree with me,
one lady declaring it to have been an accident. Will you kindly set us
right?"

"Certainly," heartily replied Mr. Smith; "your wife is quite right, the
cat scene is always done. It is a great favourite with Miss Morris, and
she hauls that cat all over the country with her, ugly as he is, just
because he's such a good actor."

_CHAPTER IX

"ALIXE." THE TRAGEDY OF THE GOOSE GREASE_

During the run of "Alixe," at Daly's Theatre, I had suffered from a
sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs, and before I was well the
doctor was simply horrified to learn that Mr. Daly had commanded me to
play at the Saturday performance, saying that if the work made me worse,
the doctor would have all day Sunday to treat me in. He really seemed to
think that using a carriage did away with all possible danger in passing
from a warm room, through icy streets, to a draughty theatre. But
certain lesions that I carry about with me are proofs of his error.
However, I dared not risk losing my engagement, so I obeyed. My chest,
which had been blistered and poulticed during my illness, was
excruciatingly tender and very sensitive to cold; and the doctor,
desiring to heal, and at the same time to protect it from chill, to my
unspeakable mortification anointed me lavishly with goose grease and
swathed me in flannel and cotton wadding.

That I had no shape left to me was bad enough; but to be a moving
abomination was worse, and of all vile, offensive, and vulgar odours
commend me to that of goose grease. With cheeks wet from tears of sheer
weakness, I reached the theatre resolved to keep as silent as the grave
on the subject of my flamboyant armour of grease and flannel. But the
first faint muttering of the coming storm reached me even in my
dressing-room, when the theatre maid (I had none of my own yet) entered,
and frowningly snapped out: "I'd like to know what's the matter with
this room? It never smelled like this before. Just as soon as you go
out, Miss Morris, I'll hunt it over and see what the trouble is."

I had been pale, but at that speech one might have lighted ma