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This was the woman of whom he had said: “Keep her away from me.” But he couldn't resist her. He never told Saxe Commins; never told Russel Crouse; never told Phyllis and me. He was ashamed to, and off he went--not a word from him.

Well, of course, we were terribly sorry for him and furious with him, too. He lived then for another several months, but he was a goner. And to finish the saga, when the great Eugene O'Neill died, this woman allowed nobody to come to the funeral. The hearse was driven out to the cemetery, and behind the hearse was one automobile with Carlotta O'Neill sitting in it--not another soul.

Not even his son.

Well, Gene by this time had killed himself. The other son is a dope fiend. His daughter by this time was married to Charlie Chaplin living abroad. She had been read completely out of his life. It's a tragic story--but O'Neill was a great man. Gene loved thinking of the old days and the sea chanties he had sung. He had a streak in him of boyish enthusiasm that didn't seem to fit Eugene O'Neill. This was when that somber, beautiful face of his lit up and when you really loved him very, very much indeed. I'll tell you two stories about that. Once I took him over to the Crouses for dinner, and Irving Berlin was there. After dinner Berlin began picking at the piano. You know, he doesn't play very well. He plays with two fingers. But I can still see Eugene O'Neill standing