A job must be had for the fall. In a few weeks we signed with the Rev. Thomas Dixon (fresh from his successful "Clansman"); my husband as leading man and I as general understudy, in "The One Woman." Rehearsals were to be called in about two months.
To honeymoon, or not to honeymoon—to work or not to work. Work it was, and David started on a play.
And he worked. He walked the floor while dictating and I took it down on the second-hand typewriter I had purchased somewhere on Amsterdam Avenue for twenty dollars. The only other investment of the summer had been at Filene's in Boston where I left my Red Cross sartorial contributions and emerged in clothes that had a more personal relation to me.
They were happy days. The burdens were shared equally. My husband was a splendid cook; modestly said, so was I. He loved to cook, singing negro songs the while, and whatever he did, whether cooking or writing or washing the dishes, he did it with the same earnestness and cheerfulness. Felt his responsibilities too, and had a sort of mournful envy of those who had established themselves.
Harriet Quimby was now writing a weekly article for Leslie's, and summering gratis at the old Oriental Hotel at Manhattan Beach as payment for publicizing the social activities of the place. Beach-bound one day, she called at our modest menage, beautifully dressed, with wealthy guests in their expensive car. As the car drove off, Mr. Griffith gazing sadly below from our window five flights up, as sadly said "She's a success."
The play came along fine, owing much to our experiences in California. One act was located in the hop fields, and there were Mexican songs that Mr. Griffith had first heard
