“Life,” she wrote Nell, “is just one long photograph and interview.” Was she all they said? “Queen of the Silent Drama”? “Duse and Bernhardt of the Screen”? How could anyone be both? And why must she be anybody but herself? Still, it was rather fun to have them say those things; gratifying, too. Was she the little girl who such a brief while ago had lost her little telescope bag, running for a train, and slept on the station benches—tired, so tired? She was tired, now. And there seemed no resting place. Almost immediately back in Los Angeles, she was writing Nell: “I work such long hours. Sometimes I don’t even see Mother for days. Can you imagine us living in the same house and hardly seeing one another? “I must go to the studio, now, to have what I hope will be my last interview for years. I certainly was not made to be famous, it is beginning to get on my nerves.” Somewhat later, she wrote: Nell, we don’t belong to that set where they think they buy happiness with dollars. I think that is why I didn’t like New York, this time—though of course I shouldn’t say that, as they were wonderful to me, both the press and the people.... The studio gave a party for Mr. Griffith, Saturday night; all the stage-hands, electricians and working men, their wives and families, and of course the actors, and such. It reminded me of Massillon—was just such a party as we would have there—bright studio, all decorated with lanterns, and music playing, dancing, sandwiches, _baked beans_, ice-cream.... Madam (the colored lady who cleans the place) sang and danced. Dick, Dorothy and Bobby acted the fool—it was just a foolish party. Her taste was for her friends, her work—the simple, daily round. Did she sometimes stop to look back over the way she had come, and along a royal road that stretched before? I think not often. She was not a dreamer in that sense. When fan letters praised her to the skies, when the newspapers labeled her “The World’s Darling,” she was pleased, no doubt, but kept her balance; and sometimes, about three in the morning, she found it no trouble to remember that “the world’s darling” was just a frail, little figure, huddled in the dark, trying to get to sleep. XVI DIRECTOR LILLIAN