“They don’t when made of paper,” said the great Gristmille. And for some reason she saw that he suddenly gently smiled. He regarded Verbeena with a new light in his eye—one nearly of approval. “Just about the right intelligence,” he was murmuring to himself, “out of which to mold a great star. I’ll show Dave Belasco where he stands yet.”
But his terrifying eyes blazed anew at Verbeena Mayonnaise.
“Now—here don’t hold that flower like it was a flagpole in a Suffragette parade! Turn your wrist a bit, give a flaunting yet a timorous grace to it and now you step over—lots of hip work-hip-hip-hippy—O, for God’s sake, hippy! The boyish beauty’s off the map in the scene—hip work now—hip work—rotten—rotten—rotten—hip work, hip, hip, hippy—and you give the flower to our hero.”
“Why am I giving him the flower?”
“None of your damned business! Give it to him—that’s all you have to do. I’m doing all the knowing why for this outfit.
“Heaven save the day, I didn’t tell you to hit him with it! Give it to him—timidly—timidly—you are afraid of him.”
There was just a flash of the old dear, boyish Verbeena.
“I don’t care who he is, I’m not afraid of him,” she declared stoutly.
“Is that so?” said the director severely. “But remember you are afraid of me! And don’t try to tell me you are not!”
“I——”