When in the autumn of 1892 I appeared for the first time at the Folies-Bergère I knew no one, absolutely no one, in Paris. Imagine then my surprise upon receiving one day a visiting card from one of the spectators on which these words were written in lead pencil: “Oh, well, old girl, I am fiercely glad to see that you have tapped the till. We are here, a whole gang of us, two boxes full, and we want you to join us after the performance. Your old pal.” The card bore a name with which I was unacquainted. This was some practical joke, or else the call-boy had made a slip in the address. I continued my disrobing without considering the matter further. All at once a gentleman rushed into my dressing-room. “Well, Mollie, my old girl, why don’t you reply to a comrade’s letter?” But on seeing me in street costume he stopped short and cried: “Well, but who are you? I thought you were Mollie Fuller!” Then I understood that he had taken me for one of his old friends. “I know whom you mean,” I answered, “but I am not Mollie Fuller. Mollie Fuller is very well known in the United States, where she is imitating my dances. We are often mistaken for each other, but you must realise that this isn’t the same person.” The gentleman was tall, stout, very dark, of distinguished appearance, with a certain odd defect in one of his eyes. He wore a full beard. I shall never forget his aspect as he apologised. Without asking me again to join his “gang” he disappeared even more quickly than he had entered. I often encountered him after that, and he always greeted me very respectfully. From my window looking upon the courtyard of a great hotel in London I have even been present at a dinner--such a dinner as had never before been seen there--given by this same gentleman. Caruso sang. The courtyard of the hotel had been transformed into a lake, and the host and his guests dined in gondolas. From my window I watched the banquet and I thought of the other supper to which I had been invited involuntarily. The world is so small! I did not become the well-known Loie Fuller without, as is easily realised, being involved in some little adventures. I had once played the part of Jack Sheppard in the drama of that name. Our company stopped in Philadelphia. My father and mother were with me, and we took our meals in a very modest boarding-house. Some years after I returned, as a dancer, to this same city, and at the hotel at which I registered, it was one of the largest of the city, I was refused admittance. Without taking the trouble to ask why, I went elsewhere. But I thought over this irritating reception and as I could not understand it I returned to the hotel in question and asked to speak to the manager. On seeing me he looked amazed: “But you are not Loie Fuller.” I assured him that I certainly was Loie Fuller, and asked why he had been unwilling to receive me in his hotel.