Tears appeared in the lovely eyes and rolled down her white cheeks. With some care to avoid rubbing the mascara she dabbed the moisture delicately with her handkerchief. Ambrose had been listening spellbound, fascinated despite his terror by this sparkling cascade of words.
I read everything, Imperia continued, everything. There is nothing I haven't read, but monsieur, I ask you, do you think Henry James is suitable for the screen?
She paused so long and regarded him so intently that a reply seemed to be demanded. Unreasonably, Why not? was the query that issued from his lips.
Ah monsieur, you are having your fun with me! I assure you that Henry James is not suitable for the screen. No more are most of the great writers. I've read them all, all: George Moore, Frank Stockton, Paul Bourget, Hans Ewers, Booth Tarkingstone, Sinclair Louis, Oppenheims, and Dickens. Not one is suitable to the screen. They wrote before the artist had developed the proper screen technique, isn't it? I had not yet appeared to show what could be done and they were ignorant. But the writer of today, that is a different matter. What an opportunity, monsieur!
