pagne—a footman with a tray of filled glasses always seemed to be at his elbow—and admitted that it seemed possible that he could.
Mr. Deacon . . .
He turned.
I'm Auburn Six, a lovely creature announced. I was overlooked during the introductions.
The beauty of Auburn Six—if anything so thoughtful could justifiably be called beauty—was less flamboyant than that of some of the other picture stars in the room. Her face was almost sad, certainly wistful, framed in masses of curly yellow hair. She was wearing a very simple dress of paleviolet chiffon. Ambrose was able, even without having seen one of her pictures, to congratulate her on her talent.
Oh, what I do is nothing, she protested. Don't speak of it, please. I'm only out here to make money, she informed him unexpectedly. I suppose you are too.
Her manner was a contradiction of her rather fragile appearance. She seemed as forthright as Capa Nolin and even more sympathetic.
I don't know why I'm out here, Ambrose replied lamely. Ringrose and Miss Starling persuaded me to come. They insist I talk to Schwarzstein.
