So Azalea came, laughingly, and the two walked grandiloquently into the focus of the camera.
"And there is a man making phonograph records," young Gale went on. "Come over there, Zaly, and we'll have a joust of words, and record it on the sands of time!"
"What do you mean?" asked Azalea, interestedly, for she had no knowledge of some of the performances going on.
She went with Raymond and found a crowd waiting at the booth where the phonograph man was doing business. His plan was to make a record for any customer who cared to sing, recite or soliloquise for him. Mothers gladly brought their infant prodigies to "speak pieces" and went away proudly carrying the records that could be played in their homes for years to come. Aspiring young singers made records of their favourite songs. One young girl played the violin for a record.
Taking their turn, Raymond and Azalea had what he called an impromptu scrap. A few words of instruction were enough for Azalea's dramatic instinct to grasp his meaning, and they had a lively tiff followed by a sentimental "making-up" that was good enough for a vaudeville performance, and which Azalea knew would greatly amuse Patty and Bill when they should hear the record.
"Oh, what fun!" Azalea cried, "I never heard of such a thing. I want to make a lot of records. I'm going to make one of Baby!"
She ran into the house and up to the nursery where Winnie was just giving the child her dinner. "Goody!" cried Azalea, "now she'll be good-natured! Let me take her, Winnie."
Not entirely with Winnie's sanction, but in spite of her half-expressed disapproval, Azalea took the laughing child and ran back to the phonograph booth.
"Let me go in ahead of you people, won't you, please?" she begged, and the waiting line fell back to accommodate her.
But alas for her hopes. She wanted the baby to coo and gurgle in the delightful little way that Fleurette had in her happiest moments.