matter in the least. You see I don't want to write a story for the films. I want to go home.
You're very modest, she assured him.
I must make you understand, he insisted. It isn't modesty at all. It's knowledge of myself. I really can't do it. I haven't the remotest idea how to write a screen scenario. I want to go to New Mexico.
So I heard you say last night. It seems to be a sort of refrain with you. You are not very flattering to me, Mr. Deacon, Auburn Six added, but she was smiling broadly.
But Miss Six, he stammered, I've already told you . . . At least I intended to . . . I don't mind you . . . that is I like you better, I feel more at home with you, than with anybody else out here. I wouldn't be here now if I didn't.
She laughed outright. Mr. Deacon, she said, you are delicious, simply delicious, and I have a feeling that you'll get on all right with Griesheimer.
The façade of the L.L.B. Studio at Culver City resembled a mediæval Italian fortress. Characteristically, however, the great blocks of stone of which it appeared to be constructed on closer inspection proved to be made of stucco. They entered the waiting-room and Auburn approached the brighteyed boy at the desk.
