“Three o’clock. I’ll—meet you.”
Reluctantly the girls left the building, for they hated to go without the licenses, and walked out into the bright sunshine.
“What a pest that man is!” exclaimed Dot. “Of all the smug, self-satisfied, little tin-gods, he’s the worst I ever met.”
“He was rather unpleasant,” agreed Linda. “But he probably likes the false Linda, and believes in her. So he treats us as criminals.”
“I suppose that’s it. But he didn’t have to be so nasty about it. And the ridiculous way he tried to trip you up, asking where you got hold of Miss Carlton’s licenses. It made my blood boil.”
“He’s not worth getting excited over, Dot, for after all, it will be Mr. Von Goss who will decide the thing. Let’s forget him now, and go to one of these spiffy restaurants for lunch. Don’t you hope we see some of the stars?”
They sauntered along leisurely, looking at the people they passed, wondering whether they were actors and actresses. But it was confusing, for every girl here seemed to be pretty, and every man handsome. Indeed, the stenographers and waitresses were no doubt girls who had won beauty contests at home, only to come to Hollywood to find that beauty was as common as blades of grass, and that there was more to getting into the films than that. But of course these girls with the jobs—any jobs—were the lucky ones. Thousands of others must have returned home penniless.
The restaurant Linda and Dot selected was a charming one, not far from several of the studios, and the girls entered it with subdued excitement. Although it was crowded, the head waiter succeeded in finding them a little table by the wall, where they could eat and watch their fellow-diners.
For a few minutes, while they sipped their tomato cocktails, their eyes wandered about the softly lighted room, recognizing nobody in particular. Then, all of a sudden, Dot pinched Linda’s arm.
“That’s Joan Crawford!” she whispered.