WE DID better than might be expected in snatching glimpses of Maude during her long absences on tour. On our way back from Mexico one spring my aunt and I stopped over in Chicago because she was there. She was with us all the waking hours of our short stay. There were means of lengthening her weeks in Boston. If she were playing for a night at Salem, or Lawrence, or Lowell, she had a way of dropping in at our house unexpectedly; and Hartford was not really far. It was fun when we motored down on a Saturday and brought her and Miss Boynton back next day for the Boston engagement, especially as that Sunday was Maude's birthday, and our picnic lunch on the way home included a cake. She and my aunt seemed to have an understanding with the calendar that their birthdays should fall on the Sabbath. Miss Boynton's pleasure at being once more at the Touraine makes me feel it was all right to deposit her there, and then run off with Maude to 44.
Miss Boynton was always jotting down a hasty diary. She used loose pages, small and squarish, which she could tuck into an ordinary envelope and not be bothered with a binding. On one of these she wrote:
HOTEL TOURAINE BOSTON,
I am again in this wonderful place; my room is in the same location as when, in the fall of 1906, I came here first-at the time of the White Rat. [A gift to Maude from a young admirer.]
It seems unchanged in a changing even a crumbling world. The