f an obscure
country curate in her native England, conditions made it necessary for
her to support herself. Naturally, as so many of her sex have done, she
gravitated toward the stage, which always beckons most alluringly to
those who have beauty, youth and talent. Too often it is but the Lorelei
by which are wrecked the disappointed hopes of those not fitted by
nature or temperament for the hardships that must be encountered, but
with Mrs. Dainton the struggle for success had been aided materially by
the beauty and charm with which she was richly endowed. Returning to
America after a number of years--for her first tour of this country
after her London triumphs had been like a whirlwind--Mrs. Dainton had
found herself still viewed with interest, still admired for the great
beauty which had now reached its maturity, and still peevish and
petulant as a result of the fulfillment of her every slightest wish and
whim. Her little eccentricities were always excused by her personal
manager as "Madame's temperament." If an inquisitive newspaper man
wanted to know why Madame had held the curtain until nine o'clock--when
in reality she had merely motored into the country too far and had been
careless of the time--Victor would explain: "Ah, Madame has been
visiting some sick children. She is always so generous, so considerate."
Long experience had made Victor invaluable. His it was to receive the
blame whenever anything went wrong, to excuse to the utmost the
weaknesses of the English actress whenever, as they often did, her whims
seemed likely to affect the box-office receipts.

Consequently, when Mrs. Dainton and her entourage, passing out on their
way to Sanford Gordon's new ninety horse-power touring car which was
drawn up before the hotel, entered the sun parlor, it didn't in the
least surprise the amiable and considerate Victor to have the English
actress pause, sniff, stamp her foot, and protest.

"Some one has been smoking here," she insisted shrilly. "Victor, send
for the manager! The same thing happened yesterday."

"I have already complained once--" began Weldon, shifting the Pomeranian
from the left arm to the right.

"No matter--complain again. If we cannot have satisfaction, complain a
third and a fourth time. That is what hotel managers are here for--to
listen to complaints."

Sanford Gordon, the least obtrusive figure of the little cavalcade, and
the one who, for personal reasons, least desired a scene which mi