The stage hands had to pull her away from the curtain and she went to her
dressing room with her cheeks crimson under the rouge and her eyes like
black diamonds. Upon his own stage, plumed, spurred and cloaked, romance
had entered with the tread of the conqueror.

After the second gift of flowers her curiosity was as lively as Mayer had
expected. But she was not going to show it, she was going to be cool and
indifferent till he made himself known. Then she contemplated a guarded
condescension, might agree to be met and even called upon; a man who
wrote such sentiments and gave such bouquets should not be treated with
too much disdain. But when she saw him, her surprise was so great that
she forgot all her haughty intentions. Gratified vanity surged through
her. At one moment she thrilled with the anticipation of meeting such a
personage, and at the next drooped to fears that she might disappoint his
fastidious taste.

That night she answered the letter, writing it over several times:

MR. BOYE MAYER,

DEAR FRIEND:

Thanks for the flowers. They're grand. I ain't ever before had such
beautys espechully the ones that matched my dress. I looked you over and
I don't think you're so bad, so if you still want to know me maybe you
can. I live in the Vallejo Hotel on Balboa Street and if you'd give
yourself the pleasure of calling I'll be there Tuesday at four.

Yours truly,