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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINTH

I Am too Dull to Understand a Premonition--By Mr. Daly's Side I See the
Destruction of the Fifth Avenue Theatre by Fire.

How shall I call that strange influence that dumbly tries to warn, to
prepare?

Many of us have had experience of this nameless something whose efforts
are but rarely heeded. The something that one morning suddenly fills the
mind with thoughts of some friend of the far past, who is almost entirely
forgotten--persistent thoughts not to be shaken off.

You speak of the matter, and your family exclaim: "What on earth ever
brought him to your mind?" and that night you either hear of the old
friend's death or he sends you a letter from the other side of the world.

I had an acquaintance who one day found herself compelled, as it were, to
talk of thefts, of remarkable robberies. She seemed unable to turn her
mind to any other subject. If she looked at a lock, she thought how easy
it would be to force it; at a window, how readily a man might enter it.
Her people laughed and told her she was hoodooed; but next day she was
robbed of every jewel she had in the world. What was it that was trying
dumbly to warn her?

It was on the 1st of January that my mind became subject to one of those
outside seizures. The snow was banked high in the streets--had been so
for days. The unexpected sale of the house in Twenty-first Street had
forced me to new quarters; I was at that moment in Twenty-fourth Street.
As I raised my head from kissing my mother a Happy New Year, I remarked:
"The streets are in a terrible condition for a great fire--are they
not?"

"Let us hope there won't be a great fire," replied mother, and began to
pour out the coffee.

A little later the French lady coming in, to pass the compliments of the
day, I was immediately moved to ask her if our fire service here was not
superior to that of Paris? And I was greatly pleased at her joyous
acquiescence, until I discovered that her remarks had reference to our
larger fireplaces--there are always certain drawbacks accompanying a
foreign landlady.

Then I went to the matinee--for, lo, the poor actress always does double
work on days of festivity for the rest of the world, and all occasions of
legalized feasting find her eating "a cold bite." We were doing a play
called "False Shame," known in England as "The White Feather," a very
light three-act play. The dresses and scenery were beautiful; Mr. Daly
provided