The day is here, the moment almost. After a week of feverish preparation, interminable shopping, wacky hat-making, painful shoe-squeezing, and frantic wig-brushing, Mr. Astor's birthday is here and the celebration is about to begin. In a scant three hours or so, I will submit to the only request Leopoldo had of me for his birthday: a performance. It would be oh so easy just to go shopping for a present, but I guess--if you really love someone--you give them what the want. A return to the stage is not the best choice for a woman of my social magnitude, and Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish said she would be on hand if only to have me drummed from the garden club. But, then, there's not a little bit of jealousy there; since her husband long ago chose death to dealing with her scandals, Mamie has only her charitable reading room students to keep her company.

If Leopoldo wants a performance, then I will give him one no one will soon forget.