hot coffee threatened to make him forget he was not only a successful screen actor but a gentleman.
"Did you have to do it again?" he asked.
"I had to do it twice again," said the girl from over her tin cup. "They're developing the strips now, then they'll run them in the projection room, and they won't suit Sig one little bit, and I'll have to do it some more. I'll be swimming here till daylight doth appear."
She now shot that familiar glance of appraisal at Merton. "Have a sandwich and some coffee, Kid—give him your cup, Jimmie."
It was Merton Gill's great moment, a heart-gripping climax to a two-days' drama that had at no time lacked tension. Superbly he arose to it. Consecrated to his art, Clifford Armytage gave the public something better and finer. He drew himself up and spoke lightly, clearly, with careless ease :
"No, thanks—I couldn't eat a mouthful." The smile with which he accompanied the simple words might be enigmatic, it might hint of secret sorrows, but it was plain enough that these could not ever so distantly relate to a need for food.
Having achieved this sensational triumph, with all the quietness of method that should distinguish the true artist, he became seized with stage fright amounting almost to panic. He was moved to snatch the sandwich that Jimmie now proffered, the cup that he had refilled with coffee. Yet there was but a moment of confusion. Again he wielded an iron restraint. But he must leave the stage. He could not tarry there after his big scene, especially under that piercing glance of the girl. Somehow there was incredulity in it.
"Well, I guess I'll have to be going," he remarked jauntily, and turned for his exit.
"Say, Kid." The girl halted him a dozen feet away. "Say, listen here. This is on the level. I want to have a talk with you to-morrow. You'll be on the lot, won't you?"
He seemed to debate this momentarily, then replied, "Oh, yes, I'll be around here somewhere."
