be charged with a silent eloquence. He twitched his eyebrows in agony. He twiddled his fingers in despair. Nothing was left now, he felt, as he shifted the lobe of his left ear in a nor’-nor’-easterly direction, but suicide. Yes, he told himself, tightening and relaxing the muscles of his cheeks, all that remained now was death.
But, even as he reached this awful decision, a kindly voice spoke in his ear.
“Oh, come now, I wouldn’t say that,” said the kindly voice.
And Lancelot, turning, perceived the smooth-faced man who had tried to engage him in conversation in Berkeley Square.
“Say, listen,” said the smooth-faced man, sympathy in each lens of his horn-rimmed spectacles. “Tempests may lower and a strong man stand face to face with his soul, but hope, like a healing herb, will show the silver lining where beckons joy and life and happiness.”
Lancelot eyed him haughtily.
“I am not aware—” he began.
“Say, listen,” said the other, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder. “I know just what has happened. Mammon has conquered Cupid, and once more youth has had to learn the old, old lesson that though the face be fair the heart may be cold and callous.”
“What—?”
The smooth-faced man raised his hand.
“That afternoon. Her apartment. ‘No. It can never be. I shall wed a wealthier wooer.’ ”
Lancelot’s fury began to dissolve into awe. There seemed something uncanny in the way this total stranger had diagnosed the situation. He stared at him, bewildered.
“How did you know?” he gasped.
“You told me.”
“I?”
“Your face did. I could read every word. I’ve been watching you for the last two minutes, and, say, boy, it was a wow!”
“Who are you?” asked Lancelot.
The smooth-faced man produced from his waistcoat pocket a fountain-pen, two cigars, a packet of chewing-gum, a small button bearing the legend, “Boost for Hollywood,” and a visiting-card—in the order named. Replacing the other articles, he handed the card to Lancelot.
“I’m Isadore Zinzinheimer, kid,” he said. “I represent the Bigger, Better, and Brighter Motion-Picture Company of Hollywood, Cal., incorporated last July for sixteen hundred million dollars. And if you’re thinking of asking me what I want, I want you. Yes, sir! Say, listen. A fellow that can register the way you can is needed in my business; and, if you think money can stop me getting him, name the biggest salary you can think of and hear me laugh. Boy, I use banknotes for summer underclothing, and I don’t care how bad you’ve got the gimme’s if only you’ll sign on the dotted line. Say, listen. A bozo that with a mere twitch of the upper lip can make it plain to one and all that he loves a haughty aristocrat and that she has given him the air because his rich uncle, who is a pickle manufacturer living in Putney, won’t have anything more to do with him, is required out at Hollywood by the next boat if the movies are ever to become an educational force in the truest and deepest sense of the words.”
Lancelot stared at him.
“You want me to come to Hollywood?”
“I want you, and I’m going to get you. And if you think you’re going to prevent me, you’re trying to stop Niagara with a tennis racket. Boy, you’re great! When you register, you register. Your face is as chatty as a board of directors. Say, listen. You know the great thing we folks in the motion-picture industry have got to contend with? The curse of the motion-picture industry is that in every audience there are from six to seven young women with adenoids who will insist on reading out the titles as they are flashed on the screen, filling the rest of the customers with harsh thoughts and dreams of murder. What we’re trying to collect is stars that can register so well that titles won’t be needed. And, boy, you’re the king of them. I know you’re feeling good and sore just now because that beazle in there spurned your honest love; but forget it. Think of your Art. Think of your Public. Come now, what shall we say to start with? Five thousand a week? Ten thousand? You call the shots, and I’ll provide the blank contract and fountain-pen.”
Lancelot needed no further urging. Already love had turned to hate, and he no longer wished to marry Angela. Instead, he wanted to make her burn with anguish and vain regrets; and it seemed to him that Fate was pointing the way. Pretty silly the future Lady Angela Purvis would feel when she discovered that she had rejected the love of a man with a salary of ten thousand dollars a week. And fairly foolish her old father would feel when news reached him of the good thing he had allowed to get away. And racking would be the remorse, when he returned to London as Civilized Girlhood’s Sweetheart and they saw him addressing mobs from a hotel balcony, of his Uncle Jeremiah, of Fotheringay, of Bewstridge, and of Margerison.
A light gleamed in Lancelot’s eye, and he rolled the tip of his nose in a circular movement.
“You consent?” said Mr. Zinzinheimer, delighted. “ ’At-a-boy! Here’s the pen and here’s the contract.”
“Gimme!” said Lancelot.
A benevolent glow irradiated the other’s spectacles.
“Came the Dawn!” he murmured. “Came the Dawn!”
The Story of William
Miss Postlethwaite, our able and vigilant barmaid, had whispered to us that the gentleman sitting over there in the corner was an American gentleman.
“Comes from America,” added Miss Postlethwaite, making her meaning clearer.
“From America?” echoed we.
“From America,” said Miss Postlethwaite. “He’s an American.”
Mr. Mulliner rose with an old-world grace. We do not often get Americans in the bar-parlour of the Anglers’ Rest. When we do, we welcome them. We make them realize that Hands Across the Sea is no mere phrase.
“Good evening, sir,” said Mr. Mulliner. “I wonder if you would care to join my friend and myself in a little refreshment?”
“Very kind of you, sir.”
“Miss Postlethwaite, the usual. I understand you are from the other side,
