“Hollywood, always more or less mad, was really an asylum. Even Mary was doing a talkie, ‘Coquette’[[4]]; Chester Morris was doing another ‘Alibi.’ Nobody was doing our beautiful old silent pictures, any more. Everywhere you heard the hammering of workmen building sound stages. Then—with Spring—Reinhardt returned to his neglected theatres, to his castle at Salzburg. It had been a great loss to him. I was not responsible, for he had signed his contract with United Artists before I had, but I felt terrible over it. He never blamed me, or was anything but fine about it. I did not see him again until last Summer (1930), when I was in Paris. We spoke of the pity of it all—his coming at the wrong time, when it was too late—too late and too early. Another year, and he might have been in the mood for a talkie. He had really come on a sincere errand. Most of those who come, come just for the money in it. He had come for a finer purpose.”
[4]. Lillian herself was more or less responsible for “Coquette.” In a letter of Sept. 17, 1928, Mary wrote her: “I remember, dear, you were the first to tell me to do ‘Coquette.’ If it turns out well, it will be the second time in my career that you have helped me bridge a difficult place.” Lillian’s suggestion, however, had been, of course, for a silent picture.
XII
ON THE FLYING CARPET
Lillian looked out of the window of the den, on the boats passing up and down, perhaps reflecting a little on the uncertainty of human undertakings.
“I have one bright memory of that gloomy Spring,” she said presently. “One morning in March, while Reinhardt was in the desert, Douglas Fairbanks called me up, and asked:
“‘Are you game to do something?’
“‘What is it?’ I said.
“‘Never mind; are you game to do it?’
“‘Are you and Mary going to do it?’