"How'd you meet Fay?"
Clancy told him, told him all about the little legacy from the West, the breaking of the home ties. She mentioned that she had a card of introduction to an agent.
"Well, that'll help—maybe," said Weber. "But it don't matter. You give me a ring to-morrow afternoon, and I'll make a date with you. I know about everybody in the picture game worth knowing, and I'll start you off right."
"You're awfully good," she told him.
Weber smiled; Clancy noted, for the first time, that the merry eyes deep set in flesh, could be very hard.
"Maybe I am, and maybe I ain't. Anyway, you ring me—those are hors d'œuvres, Florine. Anchovy, salami—try 'em."
Clancy did, and enjoyed them. Also, she liked the soup, which Weber informed her was turtle, and the fish, a filet of sole. After that, she danced with her mentor.
They returned to the table and Weber promptly began singing her praises. Thereafter, in quick succession, she danced with several men, among them Zenda, a mop-haired man with large, dreamy eyes, who informed her casually that he was giving the party. It was to celebrate, he said, the releasing of his twenty-fifth film.
"You a friend of the big blond girl that you came in with?" he asked.
"Why, she invited me!" cried Clancy. "Miss Marston—don't you know her?"