Do you know, she demanded, turning to face Ambrose squarely, what my public is?
Your public? he repeated, bewildered.
She swept her arms out in a broad gesture, evidently a favourite with her.
My public is the world, she cried, the wide, wide world, and for eternity! Millions worship at my shrine. Millions wait for my next picture. And think, only think, the record lasts. Always, after I am dead, the public may see me live and move. This is your opportunity too, monsieur. Why don't you grasp it?
I don't think I understand you. Ambrose wiped his moist brow with his handkerchief.
How many people see one of your plays? A few paltry thousands every week, while millions look at my pictures, isn't it? And when your play has run its course, it is finished, except for the few, the very few, who can read it in the library. Think what would happen if you wrote for the films . . . wrote a script for me. There it would be always gleaming on silver screens all over the globe.
I wonder . . .
You doubt me? Her expression was ferocious.
Ambrose hastened to reassure her. You see, he explained, I don't know . . . I couldn't, he brought out at last.
