The Players sets aside one day a year for the ladies on Shakespeare’s birthday, when the feminine friends of the members are allowed to invade the house between the hours of two and six in the afternoon. Here the stage-struck young girl may come in hopes of meeting her favorite matinee hero, but I am afraid she is often disappointed, as the young actor is generally timid and stays away that day. It is left to the older gallants to offer a substitute and, if it did not seem like boasting of my own generation, I should say that a John Drew, a Francis Wilson, or that dean of the American stage, an F. F. Mackay is still just as capable of holding his own with the modern flapper as he ever was. Every American or visiting actress of importance has been entertained at these receptions, while special days have been given, on rare occasions, to a few. There was one for Clara Louise Kellogg, one for Mrs. Forbes-Robertson, and one for the divine Sarah. Sarah is easily the one person alive to-day who knows how to give a personal thrill to everyone with whom she comes into contact. I remember seeing her a year or two ago, driving in New York in an open carriage. I did not recognize her at first, but some subtle influence compelled me to raise my hat and bow in homage to—I know not what. I got in return a thrilling smile. When Madame Bernhardt was guest of honor at The Players, she chose the landing of the stairway upon which to hold her court of honor, thereby stopping all progress up or down. It required all the tact of Mr. Booth to get her satellites away from her and finally move her to a more remote spot. How fine to be a queen and calmly acknowledge it to the world! Once I was standing with Stanhope Forbes, the Royal Academician, and his brother at the Victoria Station. The brother was then the head of the continental affairs of the Chatham and Dover Railway. All of a sudden an official rushed up and asked what he should do about the next train for Dover, saying that there was a lady who was stopping everything by insisting that she must have her dog with her. “Well, she can’t,” said Forbes. “But she insists, sir, and she is making an awful row. “That’s no matter. Who is she?” “She says her name is something like Sarah Bernhard,” said the man. “Good God!” said Forbes, wilting. “Give her the train.” In my student days there were two “gags” on Sarah. One was, “Yesterday an open carriage drove up to the Théâtre Français out of which got Sarah Bernhardt.” The other was a caricature of Sarah and Sarcey, the critic; she taking fattening, and he anti-obesity, pills. While he is interviewing her one of his pills falls out of the box and is eaten by Sarah’s pet tiger, which is crouched beside her on the floor. The tiger immediately becomes a rug. Sarah screams and gives it one of her pills; it becomes a tiger again.