Lunched with Emil Fuchs, and walked home by Fifth Avenue. In front
of the Public Library a meeting was going on. A woman was speaking,
and it seemed to be an appeal for funds for “suffering Ireland.” I
mingled with the crowd in hopes of hearing something startling. But I
only heard a jumbled mix-up about Women’s Suffrage, and then Belgium,
and about the Queen of Belgium being a full-blooded German, “but that
didn’t stop you going to help Belgium,” the speaker said. I couldn’t
wait long enough to see the connection with Ireland. As I walked away
I revolved in my mind the letter I had from papa this morning in which
he told me that Stenning, our Scotch game-keeper, who had lived on our
Irish estate ever since I was a small child, has just been murdered in
his house.
My thoughts were suddenly broken into by the unusual action of a man
who skipped backwards in front of me, and before I realized it a huge
kodak was aimed at me. A few paces further on a man of rather humble
appearance addressed me as “Miss Sheridan.” He took his hat off and
held it in his hand while he told me that he had heard me lecture,
and had read everything I had written. “I am a Russian” he said--“and
I felt that you had the good of Russia at heart ... I just wanted to
thank you.” I thanked him, shook hands, and walked on. Queer place,
Fifth Avenue!