the high-class boys she always fails to click. She goals 'em all at first glance, but after that it seems to be a case of no can do.
I didn't try to make a heavy boy friend of Mr. Daft; in fact I went out of my way to sell him Hazel. My roommate's show had now closed, and, being a good girl at heart, Hazel simply had to get a job or go without her cakes. The European junket had played havoc with her bankroll and my weekly honorarium wouldn't feed two dyspeptic gnats, let alone two healthy girls. In other words, the panic was on!
About this time Mr. Daft got permission from the management of the St. Moe to use the gorgeous hotel lobby for a scene in "Why Marry Your Husband?" his latest celluloid concoction. He talked me into appearing in the thing at my switchboard as a phone operator and he also commandeered Jerry Murphy and Pete Kift in their respective capacities of house detective and bell captain. The enthusiastic guests who crowded the side-lines, braving the weird glare of the Klieg lights, laughed themselves hysterical watching Jerry and Pete try to make the Barrymores look like supers, both of 'em breaking out with an acting rash and taking it as seriously as if it was diphtheria. Really, when these boys entered the hotel game the comic strip artists lost a couple of wonderful models!
All your little girl friend had to do was to keep
