Then Saturday Alla and I would do the great divide.
Take it from me, when I came in off the road that season I had a roll of
the evergreen that looked like a bundle of hall carpet.
But now that I am an heiress I do not have to adopt those subterfuges in
order to get the daily Java. But I couldn't work those stunts on my
Wilbur; he's too wise, and being in the business he's hep to all that
kind of work.
He's a good, nice, honest fellow, as press agents go, and I think I can
safely trust him with my innocent heart.
If he don't--well, you know me. If he don't think he run up against the
business end of a cyclone it will be because I got throat trouble and
can't talk.
Honest, my fair young brow is commencing to get wrinkled trying to dope
out whether I want to become a bride or lead the free and easy life of a
bachelor girl.
Of course, if I get married and don't like it divorces are easy enough
to get, and then being a widow saves a girl a whole lot of
embarrassment, for she don't have to pretend to not understand some of
the innuendoes that are now and then sprung during the modern
conversations.
But, on the other hand, Wilbur isn't there with a very big fresh air
fund, and by perseverance I might cop out a Pittsburg millionaire and
become famous.
Marriage is worse than a lottery; it's a strong second for the show
business. You never can tell.
Wilbur sure does treat me nice--he's promised that I shall be a flower
girl at the Friar Festival when it comes off in May.
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