Still she stared at him. Was she laughing inside? he wondered.
Perhaps I'd like to have you stay here till I'm a star so that you could write a picture for me.
But I'm only engaged for one picture, Ambrose cried.
Oh, they'll keep you, if you want to stay. They'll probably offer you more to go to one of the other lots and then Griesheimer will double the offer. Who's going to do your first picture?
Something was said about Dick Ruby.
Then you're a hit. Dick never made a failure. You can write the dictionary if you want to. It won't make any difference. Everybody—absolutely everybody in the world—goes to see his pictures. What's your picture called, Ambrose?
Spider Boy.
What a marvellous title! she cried in delight. What does it mean?
Oh, it's all about a man who's pursued by women in broughams . . . and wagons . . . and wheelbarrows and balloons. You know, the female spider swallows the male. I don't think I ought to be telling you this—I think it's a secret.
Oh, I shan't tell anybody. I can't say I'm crazy about the idea. I don't think it's psychologically true.
