chair, took his head in his hands and rubbed his hair into a tumult of disorder, renewing this desperate massage at intervals during the next half hour. Finally, with the thought in his mind that the last accounting for "The Pastoral Scene" could not possibly make him more unhappy than he was—since nothing could—he opened the envelope. It contained the promised account, a letter from Lehren and a blue slip of paper—a draft readily negotiable at the office of M. Cayzac's agency in Tunis.
Laurence did not read the letter or examine the account;—he stared and stared at the draft, reading it over and over with slowly dispersing incredulity: it was for four thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars and seventy-one cents. Then, after a tremulous glance at the letter, he understood what had happened. He had always thought and spoken with detestation of moving pictures and of their effect upon the populace and upon "art" and "literature"; they were indeed and repulsively for "the many," and his conviction of their vulgarity was a profound one.
Now he sat trembling, looking at Lehren's draft; and his eyes grew bright and watery. "Thank God for the movies!" he whispered brokenly.
A few moments later he jumped up and looked at
