Occasionally she would make concert tours and, as my especial lot on the newspaper I represented at the time was that of interviewing celebrities, I came not infrequently in contact with her. Other stars had been made newspaper copy by me in the interim between MacDowell’s request and my securing of Celeste, but I had been somewhat cautious in my approach. It is not pleasing to a man to have women look on him with disdain. Celeste practically made the contact herself. Some chance question of mine made her exclaim, “But wouldn’t we all want to drink of the waters of youth? To see these arms grow flabby!” She shuddered dramatically. “To watch wrinkles come along the face! To mark the sparkle pass from the eyes--nothing more horrible!” Celeste’s eyes were famous. I can recall her as she stood there. Beauty seemed to pour out in radiance from her. What a tragedy--what a bitter tragedy--that such wonder could perish. The dull walls of the hotel bedroom--reporters have unquestioned access to many places--took on a glow with her presence. “And what would you give for eternal youth?” I asked, admirably, I thought, keeping eagerness from my voice. Her soprano rippled off delightfully into a tenor bit of opera. Her eyes flashed at me challengingly. Then I recognized it as Faust’s acceptance of Mephisto’s offer. The exchange of soul for youth. “No less than Faust gave,” she laughed. “I should be glad to give audience to Mephisto himself.” Here was my opening. Fortunate for me indeed. “What if a kindlier spirit than he could give you what you wish?” queried I. My tones took on depth, eagerness. She caught my spirit immediately. I swung into the tale of the kindly man who had found the fountain of youth. Told her that she could be the one chosen for a test. Then I explained what might be the danger--told her of the morning glory that did not bear seed. “But it blossomed, did it not?” she laughed. “It flowered. That would be enough for me. Who would wish their thoughts to find a full fruition if they were to be borne on a withered plant? Seed means nothing to me. It is not in the future that I wish to live--not in children--not in strange new thoughts. Tell your friend that Rosa Celeste desires to remain beautiful.” She was dramatically lovely at the moment. Light flashed from her famous eyes. It was as though a thirsty person saw an oasis--a poverty-stricken wretch heard that he was the inheritor of vast wealth. * * * * * She was given the mordant. For a few years there is little to record of her. She was just as beautiful as before--just as popular--the idol of a public which paid its tributes in large audiences and by demanding of the press tales of a great favorite.