blended bland astonishment with an even more suave disapproval.
Smiling feebly, Ambrose held out his hand with an extremely unsuccessful effort to be jovial. His manner, as he inquired, How are you, Mr. Ringrose? was rather like that of an ocean voyager who steps off the gangway to meet an unexpected creditor on the dock.
Ringrose was silent, but stern rebuke shone from his eye.
I suppose you are wondering . . . I suppose it seems strange to you . . . You probably think . . .
It was typical of Ambrose that while inwardly he could discover no reason why he should explain or apologize, outwardly he was compelled to do so.
I do indeed, the moving picture director assented. I think it is very strange. What in the world were you doing on a milkwagon and why did you pop off it in this undignified manner? You are the guest of one of the great celebrities of the world and anything eccentric you may do is likely to reflect on her popularity . . . even on mine when I make her pictures. I'd like to know, he went on solemnly, how you think Golden Dreams will go in the movie houses when it becomes known to the fans that Miss Starling's guest, Ambrose Deacon, the eminent play-
