This continued until they ran out of plays. Dick, meanwhile, turned to Mr. Bloeckman, determined to extract what gold he could from this unpromising load.
“I hear all the new novels are sold to the moving pictures as soon as they come out.”
“That’s true. Of course the main thing in a moving picture is a strong story.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“So many novels are all full of talk and psychology. Of course those aren’t as valuable to us. It’s impossible to make much of that interesting on the screen.”
“You want plots first,” said Richard brilliantly.
“Of course. Plots first—” He paused, shifted his gaze. His pause spread, included the others with all the authority of a warning finger. Gloria followed by Rachael was coming out of the dressing room.
Among other things it developed during dinner that Joseph Bloeckman never danced, but spent the music time watching the others with the bored tolerance of an elder among children. He was a dignified man and a proud one. Born in Munich he had begun his American career as a peanut vender with a travelling circus. At eighteen he was a side show ballyhoo; later, the manager of the side show, and, soon after, the proprietor of a second-class vaudeville house. Just when the moving picture had passed out of the stage of a curiosity and become a promising industry he was an ambitious young man of twenty-six with some money to invest, nagging financial ambitions and a good working knowledge of the popular show business. That had been nine years before. The moving picture industry had borne him up with it where it threw off dozens of men with more financial ability, more imagination, and more practical ideas … and now he sat here and contemplated the immortal Gloria for whom young Stuart Holcome had gone from New York to Pasadena—watched her, and knew that presently she would cease dancing and come back to sit on his left hand.
He hoped she would hurry. The oysters had been standing some minutes.
Meanwhile Anthony, who had been placed on Gloria’s left hand, was dancing with her, always in a certain fourth of the floor. This, had there been stags, would have been a delicate tribute to the girl, meaning “Damn you, don’t cut in!” It was very consciously intimate.
“Well,” he began, looking down at her, “you look mighty sweet tonight.”
She met his eyes over the horizontal half foot that separated them.
“Thank you—Anthony.”
“In fact you’re uncomfortably beautiful,” he added. There was no smile this time.
“And you’re very charming.”
“Isn’t this nice?” he laughed. “We actually approve of each other.”
“Don’t you, usually?” She had caught quickly at his remark, as she always did at any unexplained allusion to herself, however faint.
He lowered his voice, and when he spoke there was in it no more than a wisp of badinage.
“Does a priest approve the Pope?”
“I don’t know—but that’s probably the vaguest compliment I ever received.”
“Perhaps I can muster a few bromides.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have you strain yourself. Look at Muriel! Right here next to us.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Muriel was resting her brilliant cheek against the lapel of Maury Noble’s dinner coat and her powdered left arm was apparently twisted around his head. One was impelled to wonder why she failed to seize the nape of his neck with her hand. Her eyes, turned ceiling-ward, rolled largely back and forth; her hips swayed, and as she danced she kept up a constant low singing. This at first seemed to be a translation of the song into some foreign tongue but became eventually apparent as an attempt to fill out the metre of the song with the only words she knew—the words of the title—
“He’s a ragpicker,
A ragpicker;
A ragtime picking man,
Rag-picking, picking, pick, pick,
Rag-pick, pick, pick.”
—and so on, into phrases still more strange and barbaric. When she caught the amused glances of Anthony and Gloria she acknowledged them only with a faint smile and a half-closing of her eyes, to indicate that the music entering into her soul had put her into an ecstatic and exceedingly seductive trance.
The music ended and they returned to their table, whose solitary but dignified occupant arose and tendered each of them a smile so ingratiating that it was as if he were shaking their hands and congratulating them on a brilliant performance.
“Blockhead never will dance! I think he has a wooden leg,” remarked Gloria to the table at large. The three young men started and the gentleman referred to winced perceptibly.
This was the one rough spot in the course of Bloeckman’s acquaintance with Gloria. She relentlessly punned on his name. First it had been “Blockhouse.” lately, the more invidious “Blockhead.” He had requested with a strong undertone of irony that she use his first name, and this she had done obediently several times—then slipping, helpless, repentant but dissolved in laughter, back into “Blockhead.”
It was a very sad and thoughtless thing.
“I’m afraid Mr. Bloeckman thinks we’re a frivolous crowd,” sighed Muriel, waving a balanced oyster in his direction.
“He has that air,” murmured Rachael. Anthony tried to remember whether she had said anything before. He thought not. It was her initial remark.
Mr. Bloeckman suddenly cleared his throat and said in a loud, distinct voice:
“On the contrary. When a man speaks he’s merely tradition. He has at best a few thousand years back of him. But woman, why, she is the miraculous mouthpiece of posterity.”
In the stunned pause that followed this astounding remark, Anthony choked suddenly on an oyster and hurried his napkin to his face. Rachael and Muriel raised a mild if somewhat surprised laugh, in which Dick and Maury joined, both of them red in the face and restraining uproariousness with the most apparent difficulty.
“—My God!” thought Anthony. “It’s a subtitle from one of his movies. The man’s memorized it!”
Gloria alone made no sound. She fixed Mr. Bloeckman with a glance of silent reproach.
“Well, for the love of Heaven! Where on earth did you dig that up?”
Bloeckman looked at
