you think everybody's been a little queer? I mean Mama Starling, for instance, and Count Supari, to say nothing of Imperia and Ringrose. They all seem so intense.
Lawrence shouted.
You mustn't take 'em seriously, Deacon. They all dramatize things, not only life, but every incident in life. You'll get used to it if you stay out here awhile.
I didn't know, said Ambrose, and I don't think I'll stay out here very long. Then, Good-bye, and thank you for all you've done for me.
Done for you! I only wish half the authors they ship out here had half as great an idea as you have.
Ambrose almost bounded down the staircase, across the lot, around Stage No. 8, through the garden with the fountain, on to the office where the door-boy announced not without obsequiousness, Your car is here, Mr. Deacon.
In the waiting-room beyond the gate a girl who had been sitting on a bench rose swiftly and approached him.
How are you, Mr. Deacon?
Startled, he looked into the eyes of Wilhelmina Ford.
Miss . . . ! he cried, extending a limp hand.
She smilingly inquired where he was going.
