California. If you want Indians there is a whole encampment near Culver City. There are orange groves and avocados and balmy breezes and acacias. . . .
But I am going to visit a friend. . . .
A friend! Who can be more of a friend to you than I am? I have made up my mind, she went on fretfully. Don't contradict me. Don't argue. You are going to Hollywood to write a script for me, Imperia Starling. I shall insist that Invincible give you a contract at once. You shall stay with me in my little bungalow at Beverly Hills. It is all arranged.
But . . .
I insist. We'll settle the details tomorrow. You are giving me a terrific headache with your arguments. I always have my way. Elissa! Where is that girl?
The door opened and a frightened face appeared in the aperture.
Elissa, my smelling salts . . . and a bottle of malt extract . . . and some rice wafers . . . and she turned to Ambrose: Dear Mr. Deacon, you are adorable, and I shall see you tomorrow, when I am feeling better, to further discuss our plans.
