"Oh, it's you, Miss Montague! Well, what is it? I'm very, very busy.""Well, it's something I wanted to ask you." She quickly crossed the room to stand by him, tenderly flecking a bit of dust from his coat sleeve as she began, "Say, listen, Mr. Henshaw: Do you think beauty is a curse to a poor girl?"Mr. Henshaw scowled down into the eyes so confidingly lifted to his.
"That's something you won't ever have to worry about," he snapped, and was gone, his brows again drawn in perplexity over his work.
"You're not angry with poor little me, are you, Mr. Henshaw?"The girl called this after him and listened, but no reply came from back of the partition.
Mrs. Montague, from the bench, rebuked her daughter.
"Say, what do you think that kidding stuff will get you? Don't you want to work for him any more?"The girl turned pleading eyes upon her mother.
"I think he might have answered a simple question," said she.
This was all distasteful to Merton Gill. The girl might, indeed, have deserved an answer to her simple question, but why need she ask it of so busy a man? He felt that Mr. Henshaw's rebuke was well merited, for her own beauty was surely not excessive.
Her father, from the bench, likewise admonished her.
"You are sadly prone to a spirit of banter," he declared, "though Iadmit that the so-called art of the motion picture is not to be regarded too seriously. It was not like that in my day. Then an actor had to be an artist; there was no position for the little he-doll whippersnapper who draws the big money to-day and is ignorant of even the rudiments of the actor's profession."He allowed his glance to rest perceptibly upon Merton Gill, who felt uncomfortable.
"We were with Looey James five years," confided Mrs. Montague to her neighbours. "A hall show, of course--hadn't heard of movies then--doing Virginius and Julius Csesar and such classics, and then starting out with The Two Orphans for a short season. We were a knock-out, I'll say that. I'll never forget the night we opened the new opera house at Akron. They had to put the orchestra under the stage.""And the so-called art of the moving picture robs us of our little meed of applause," broke in her husband. "I shall never forget a remark of the late Lawrence Barrett to me after a performance of Richelieu in which he had fairly outdone himself. 'Montague, my lad,' said he 'we may work for the money, but we play for the applause.' But now our finest bits must go in silence, or perhaps be interrupted by a so-called director who arrogates to himself the right to instill into us the rudiments of a profession in which we had grounded ourselves ere yet he was out of leading strings. Too often, naturally, the results are discouraging."The unabashed girl was meantime having sprightly talk with the casting director, whom she had hailed through the window as Countess. Merton, somewhat startled, wondered if the little woman could indeed be of the nobility.
