In one respect I differ from most of my companions in misery, since they almost invariably fear most the drunkard; while I ground my greater fear of the sober man upon the simple fact that I can’t outrun him as I can a drunken one, at a pinch.  One night, in returning home from a performance of “Divorce,”—­a very long play that brought me into the street extra late,—­a shrieking man flew across my path, and as a second rushed after him with knife uplifted for a killing blow, his foot caught in mine, and as he pitched forward the knife sank into his victim’s arm instead of his back as he had intended; and with the cries of “Murder!  Police!” ringing in my ears, I ran as if I were the murderess.  These things are in themselves a pretty high price to pay for being an actress.

I had a friend, an ancient lady, a relative of one of our greatest actors, who, for independence’ sake, taught music in her old age.  One night she had played at a concert and was returning home.  Tall and slight and heavily veiled, she walked alone.  Then suddenly appeared a well-looking young son of Belial, undoubtedly a gentleman by daylight.  He tipped his hat and twirled his mustache; she turned away her head.  He cleared his throat; she seemed quite deaf.  He spoke; he called her “girlie” (the scamp!).  She walked the faster; so did he.  He protested she should not walk home alone; she stopped; she spoke, “Will you please allow me to walk home in peace?”

But, no, that was just what he would not do, and suddenly she answered, “Very well, then, I accept your escort, though under protest.”

[Illustration:  Clara Morris in “Evadne"]

Surprised, he walked at her side.  The way was long, the silence grew painful.  He ventured to suggest supper as they passed a restaurant; she gently declined.  At last she stopped directly beneath a gas-lamp, and from her face, with sorrow-hollowed eyes and temples, where everyone of her seventy-six years had been stamped in cruel line and crease and wrinkle, she lifted up the veil and raised her sad old eyes reproachfully to his.  He staggered back, turned red, turned white, stammered, took off his hat, attempted to apologize, then turned and fled.

“And what,” I asked, “did you say to him?”

“Say, say,” she repeated; “justice need not be cruel.  Why add anything to the sight of this?” and she drew a finger down her withered cheek.

’Twas said with laughing bitterness, for she had been very fair, and well guarded, too, in the distant past; while then I could but catch her tired hands and kiss them, in a burst of pity that this ancient gentlewoman might not walk in peace through the city streets because fate had left her without a protector.

Appeal to the police, I think some one says.  Of course, if he is about; but recall that famous old recipe of Mrs. Glass beginning, “First catch your hare and then—­” so, just catch your policeman.  But believe me, they rarely appear together,—­your tormentor of women and your policeman,—­unless, indeed, the former is stupidly in liquor; and then what good if he is arrested? shame will prevent you from appearing against him.  Silence and speed, therefore, are generally the best defensive weapons of the frightened, lonely girl.