Boiling with rage, her lips quivering so that she could not articulate, the girl turned and flung out of the studio.
White-haired Jack Knebworth glared round at the silent company.
“This is where the miracle happens,” he said sardonically. “This is where the extra girl who’s left a sick mother and a mortgage at home leaps to fame in a night. If you don’t know that kinder thing happens on every lot in Hollywood you’re no students of fiction. Stand forth, Mary Pickford the second!”
The extras smiled, some amused, some uncomfortable, but none spoke. Adele was frozen stiff, incapable of speech.
“Modesty don’t belong to this industry,” old Jack sneered amiably. “Who thinks she can play ‘Roselle’ in this piece—because an extra’s going to play the part, believe me! I’m going to show this pseudo-actress that there isn’t an extra on this lot that couldn’t play her head off. Somebody talked about playing a part yesterday—you!”
His forefinger pointed to Adele, and with a heart that beat tumultuously she went toward him.
“I had a camera test of you six months ago,” said Jack suspiciously. “There was something wrong with her: what was it?”
He turned to his assistant. That young man scratched his head in an effort of memory.
“Ankles?” he hazarded a guess at random—a safe guess, for Knebworth had views about ankles.
“Nothing wrong with them—get out the print and let us see it.”