Ritchie Cahill, for instance, who gets moody and leaves his director and cast flat while he sits in his dressing-room listening to a phonograph record of Dvořák's Humoresque. And there's Lucas Finsilver who is always properly dressed. He can't even sit before his writing-desk to write a letter unless he is correctly attired in a writing-suit. And there's Agra Bellaire who recently told me that her newly decorated boudoir was just a petit morceau de Chinese. And . . .
Imperia was crying to the group: There's ping-pong and dancing and bridge and tennis and bathing, but who wants to see my new picture?
The clamorous insistence to see the picture would have satisfied any star.
Tennis and swimming at night? Ambrose queried of his companion.
Yes, she replied, the court is artificially lighted and the water in the pool is artificially heated. It's artificially coloured too.
I think you'll like my Golden Dreams, Ambrose heard a voice say in his ear. He turned to find Herbert Ringrose by his side.
Footmen lowered a silver screen over one wall of the room, while other servitors agranged chairs at the opposite end. The company disposed itself as
