He laughed a little and said: "Good-night, now. Oh, by the way, there's a
forfeit against you for not wearing your bustle to-night."
But I was not greatly alarmed or excited--not half so much as I was next
day, about four o'clock, when some men drove up and insisted upon leaving
in my room a handsome inlaid desk that was taller than I was. At first I
protested, but a card, saying that it was "A souvenir of 'Alixe,' from
your manager and friend, A. Daly," changed my bearing to one of most
unseemly pride.
In the next ten days I wrote I think to every soul I knew, and kept up my
diary with vicious exactitude, just for the pleasure of sitting before
the lovely desk, that to-day stands in my "den" in the attic. Its
mirror-door, is dim and cloudy, its sky-blue velvet writing-leaf faded to
a silvery gray, but even so it still remains "A souvenir of 'Alixe,' from
A. Daly."