motor broke down, as they usually do on such occasions, and I had to 'phone and disappoint. I was sorry, because I was to meet some brilliant people.

I had luncheon next day with Max Eastman, one of my best friends. He is a radical and a poet and editor of The Liberator, a charming and sympathetic fellow who thinks. All of his doctrines I do not subscribe to, but that makes no difference in our friendship. We get together, argue a bit, and then agree to disagree and let it go at that and remain friends.

He told me of a party that he was giving at his home that evening and I hastened to accept his invitation to attend. His home is always interesting. His friends likewise.

What a night it was for me! I got out of myself. My emotions went the gamut of tears to laughter without artificiality. It was what I had left Los Angeles for, and that night Charlie Chaplin seemed very far away, and I felt or wanted to feel myself just a simple soul among other souls.

I was introduced to George, an ex-I. W. W. secretary. I suppose he has a last name, but I didn't know it and it didn't seem to matter when one met George. Here was a real personality. He had a light in his eyes that I have never seen before, a light that must have shone from his soul. He had the look of one who believes he is right and has the courage of his convictions. It is a scarce article.

I learned that he had been sentenced by Judge Landis to serve twenty year in the penitentiary, that he had served two years and was out because of ill-health. I did not learn the offence. It did not seem to matter.

A dreamer and a poet, he became wistfully gay on this hectic night among kindred spirits. In a mixed crowd of intellectuals he stood out.

He was going back to serve his eighteen years in the penitentiary and was remaining jovial. What an ordeal! But ordeal signifies what it would have been for me. I don't believe it bothered him. I hardly believe he was there. He was somewhere else in the place from which that look in his eyes emanated. A man whose ideas are ideals.

I pass no opinion, but with such charm one must sympathise.

It was an amusing evening. We played charades and I watched George act. It was all sorts of fun. We danced a bit.

Then George came in imitating Woodrow. It was screamingly funny, and he threw himself into the character, or caricature, making Wilson seem absurdly ridiculous. We were convulsed with laughter.

But all the time I couldn't help thinking that he must go back to the penitentiary for eighteen years.

What a party!

It didn't break up until two in the morning, though clock or calendar didn't get a thought from me.

We all played, danced, and acted. No one asked me to walk funny, no one asked me to twirl a cane. If I wanted to do a tragic bit, I did, and so did everyone else. You were a creature of the present, not a production of the past, not a promise of the future. You were accepted as is, sans "Who's Who" labels and income-tax records.

George asks me about my trip, but he does not interview. He gives me letters to friends.

In my puny way, sounding hollow and unconvincing, I try to tell George how foolish he is. He tries to explain that he can't help it. Like all trail blazers, he is a martyr. He does not rant. He blames no one. He does not rail at fate.

If he believes himself persecuted, his belief is unspoken. He is almost Christlike as he explains to me. His viewpoint is beautiful, kind, and tender.

I can't imagine what he has done to be sentenced to twenty years. My thought must speak. He believes he is spoiling my party through making me serious. He doesn't want that.

He stops talking about himself. Suddenly he runs, grabs a woman's hat, and says, "Look, Charlie, I'm Sarah Bernhardt!" and goes into a most ridiculous travesty.

I laugh. Everyone laughs. George laughs.

And he is going back to the penitentiary to spend eighteen of the most wonderful years of his life!

I can't stand it. I go out in the garden and gaze up at the stars. It is a wonderful night and a glorious moon is shining down. I wish there was something I could do for George. I wonder if he is right or wrong.

Before long George joins me. He is sad and reflective, with a sadness of beauty, not of regret. He looks at the moon, the stars. He confides, how stupid is the party, any party, compared with the loveliness of the night. The silence that is a universal gift—how few of us enjoy it. Perhaps because it cannot be bought. Rich men buy noise. Souls revel in nature's silences. They cannot be denied those who seek them.

We talk of George's future. Not of his past nor of his offence. Can't he escape? I try to make him think logically toward regaining his freedom. I want to pledge my help. He doesn't understand, or pretends not to. He has not lost anything. Bars cannot imprison his spirit.

I beg him to give himself and his life a better chance.

He smiles.

"Don't bother about me, Charlie. You have your work. Go on making the world laugh. Yours is a great task and a splendid one. Don't bother about me."

We are silent. I am choked up. I feel a sort of pent-up helplessness. I want relief. It comes.

The tears roll down my cheeks and George embraces me.

There are tears in both our eyes.

"Good-bye, Charlie."

"Good-bye, George."

What a party! Its noise disgusts me now. I call my car. I go back to the Ritz.

George goes back to the "pen."

Chuck Reisner, who played the big bully in "The Kid," called the next day. He wants to go to Europe. Why? He doesn't know. He is emotional and sensational. He is a pugilist and a song writer. A civil soldier of fortune. He doesn't like New York and thinks he wants to get back to California at once.

We have breakfast together. It is a delightful meal because it is so different from my usual lonely breakfast. Chuck goes on at a great rate and succeeds in working up his own emotions until there are tears in his eyes.

I promise him all sorts of things to get rid of him. He knows it and tells me so. We understand each other very well. I promise him an engagement. Tell him he can always get a job with me if he doesn't want too much money.

He is indignant at some press notices that have appeared about me and wants to go down to newspaper row and kill a few reporters. He fathers, mothers me in his rough way.

We talk about everybody's ingratitude for what he and I have done for people. We have a mutual-admiration convention. Why aren't we appreciated more? We are both sour on the world and its hypocrisies. It's a great little game panning the world so long as you don't let your sessions get too long or too serious.

I had a luncheon engagement at the Coffee House Club with Frank Crowninshield, and we talked over the arrangements of a dinner which I am giving to a few intimate friends. Frank is my social mentor, though I care little about society in the general acceptance of the term. We arranged for a table at the Elysée Café and it was to be a mixed party.

Among the guests were Max Eastman, Harrison Rhodes, Edward Knoblock, Mme. Maeterlinck, Alexander Woolcott, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary, Heywood Broun, Rita Weiman, and Neysa McMein, a most charming girl for whom I am posing.

Frank Harris and Waldo Frank were invited, but were unable to attend. Perhaps there were others, but I can't remember, and I am sure they will forgive me if I have neglected to mention them. I am always confused about parties and arrangements.

The last minute sets me wild. I am a very bad organiser. I am always leaving everything until the last minute, and as a