The Girl Who Made Good

US Magazine December 1911.
An illustrated article by Alan Dale.  (né Alfred J. Cohen) 1861–1928

Once every ten years a new Girl arises in London, to hold sway over fashions in face, form, style, clothes and manner. Exactly how she rises, or why she rises, or what would happen if she didn't rise are questions that I shall dismiss with airy insouciance. There is probably some phychological aspect to the question, but it is beyond me; I am no psychologist.

The girl who has "got" London for the next decade is undoubtedly Miss Lily Elsie of Daly's Theater, and, like most of these girls, she "got" London suddenly, without any beating about the bush. There was no struggle; no sign of a contect; not a suspicion of fracas. Miss Lily Elsie simply was-at the close of the run of "The Merry Widow" at Daly's theater.

I wondered if Miss Lily Elsie would receive me withour any frills and furbelows, for naturally I pictured her as somewhat haughty, with her pensive openitence as a pose. I even imagined her asking me to luncheon, and appearing at the head of her own table in a lace peignoir [long gown] and an eruption of diamonds. I have known it done in New York. I am bound to judge all these girls New-Yorkily. And I was a bit perplexed when it was borne in upon me that Miss elsie would be delighted to see me in her dressing-room at Daly's Theater during the progress or at the close of "The Count of Luxembourg".

The lovely waltz strains of "The Count of Luxembourg" rose, swooned, and died. The curtain blotted out the picture from the audience. the piece was over. Miss Elsie was free, and I made my way across the rapidly demolishing scene with a sence of complete satisfaction. She had finished pretending to the audience; it was now her cue to pretend to me. You see, having met so many of these Girls, I am inclined to be cynical

A large and lovely dressing-room, very unlike the cubby-holes that do duty for such in NMew York, where all that's gold glitters for the public only, and not for the artist. Miss Elsie's room was a veritable boudoir. She had thrown herself into a chair by the dressing table, and in front of a looking glass. Of course, a duenna [chaperon]. The duenna sat far away in her somber black

Transcription to be continued as time permits.

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