“Hello, Miss Fane. Remember me? Met you when you went through here on your way south. Jim Bradshaw, of the Tourist Bureau, press-agent of beauty, contact man for Paradise. Our best aloha—and here’s a lei to prove it.” He hung a fragrant garland about her neck, while the man she had called Alan moved quietly away.
“You're awfully kind,” Shelah Fane told him. “Of course I remember you. You seemed so glad to see me. You do now.”
He grinned. “I am—and besides, that’s my job. I’m the door-mat on the threshold of Hawaii, with ‘welcome’ written all over me. Island hospitality—l have to make sure that my advertisements all come true. But in your case, I—well, believe me, it isn’t any strain.” He saw that she looked expectantly beyond him. “Say, I’m sorry, but all the newspaper men seem to be lingering in the arms of Morpheus. However, you can't blame them. Lulled as they are by the whisper of the soft invigorating trade-winds in the coco-palms—I’ll finish that later. Just tell me what’s doing, and I'll see that it gets into the papers. Did you complete the big South Sea picture down in Tahiti?”
“Not quite,” she answered. “We left a few sequences to be shot in Honolulu. We can live here so much more comfortably, and the backgrounds, you know, are every bit as beautiful—"
“Do I know it?” the boy cried. “Ask me. Exotic flowers, blossoming trees, verdant green hills, blue sunny skies with billowy white clouds—the whole a dream of the unchanging tropics with the feel of spring. How’s that? I wrote it yesterday.”
“Sounds pretty good to me,” Shelah laughed.
