Company, Culver City, California. Grudgingly, he offered a flabby palm which Ringrose grasped with cordiality. Then the director, uninvited, seated himself opposite the playwright.
On your way to Hollywood, I presume, was his opening speech.
No, I'm not going to Hollywood, Ambrose replied.
Frank disbelief was published on the countenance of Herbert Ringrose.
I know, I know. He uttered these syllables with an air of impatience. You can't be too careful. Have you signed with any company?
I don't know what you mean, Ambrose protested, and then added, No, in a guilty manner.
Herbert Ringrose leaned forward. When he spoke his tone was both confidential and portentous.
His words were: The films need men like you.
Ambrose's terror increased.
Call it an industry, call it an art . . . Ringrose waved such unimportant distinctions away with his hand . . . Why quibble? The writer is perhaps the most essential single factor—saving always the director—in Hollywood. Stories, stories . . . he sighed . . . the cameras eat 'em up. Swallow 'em. Creation, inventive genius: that's what we need. We
