“Bill,” said he, addressing the small terrier that lay on the hearth-rug before the fireless grate of his sitting-room, “this is where I fall down. But whether I do or not, I’m going to meet an extra—ain’t that grand?”
Bill wagged his tail agreeably.
CHAPTER II
MR. SAMPSON LONGVALE CALLS
Adele Leamington waited till the studio was almost empty before she came to where the white-haired man sat crouched in his canvas chair, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, a malignant scowl on his forehead.
It was not a propitious moment to approach him: nobody knew that better than she.
“Mr. Knebworth, may I speak to you?”
He looked up slowly. Ordinarily he would have risen, for this middle-aged American in normal moments was the soul of courtesy. But just at that moment, his respect for womanhood was something below zero. His look was blank, though the director in him instinctively approved her values. She was pretty, with regular features, a mop of brown hair in which the sunshine of childhood still lingered. Her mouth firm, delicately shaped, her figure slim—perfect in many ways.
Jack had seen many beautiful extras in his career, and had passed through stages of enthusiasm and despair as he had seen them translated to the screen—pretty wooden figures without soul or expression, gauche of movement, hopeless. Too pretty to be clever, too conscious of their beauty to be natural. Dolls without intelligence or initiative—just “extras” who could wear clothes in a crowd, who could smile and dance mechanically, fit for extras and nothing else all the days of their lives.
“Well?” he asked brusquely.
“Is there a part I could play in this production, Mr. Knebworth?” she asked.