“Good work,” said the girl. “I knew you was a type the minute I made you.”
Red-coated musicians entered an orchestra loft far down the set. The voice of Henshaw came through a megaphone: “Everybody that’s near the floor fox-trot.” In a moment the space was thronged with dancers. Another voice called “Kick it!” and a glare of light came on.
“You an’ me both!” said the Spanish girl, rising.
Merton Gill remained seated. “Can’t,” he said. “Sprained ankle.” How was he to tell her that there had been no chance to learn this dance back in Simsbury, Illinois, where such things were frowned upon by pulpit and press? The girl resumed her seat, at first with annoyance, then brightened. “All right at that,” she said. “I bet we get more footage this way.” She again became coquettish, luring with her wiles one who remained sunk in ennui.
A whistle blew, a voice called “Save it!” and the lights jarred off. Henshaw came trippingly down the line. “You people didn’t dance. What’s the matter?” Merton Gill glanced up, doing a double transition, from dignified surprise to smiling chagrin. “Sprained ankle,” he said, and fell into the bored look that had served him with the assistant. He exhaled smoke and raised his tired eyes to the still luring Spanish girl. Weariness of the world and women was in his look. Henshaw scanned him closely.
“All right, stay there—keep just that way—it’s what I want.” He continued down the line, which had become hushed. “Now, people. I want some flashes along here, between dances—see what I mean? You’re talking, but you’re bored with it all. The hollowness of this night life is getting you; not all of you—most of you girls can keep on smiling—but The Blight of Broadway shows on many. You’re beginning to wonder if this is all life has to offer—see what I mean?” He continued down the line.
From the table back of Merton Gill came a voice in speech to the retreating back of Henshaw: “All right, old top, but it’ll take a good lens to catch any blight on this bunch—most of ‘em haven’t worked a lick in six weeks, and they’re tickled pink.” He knew without turning that this was the Montague girl trying to be funny at the expense of Henshaw who was safely beyond hearing. He thought she would be a disturbing element in the scene, but in this he was wrong, for he bent upon the wine glass a look more than ever fraught with jaded world-weariness. The babble of Broadway was resumed as Henshaw went back to the cameras.
Presently a camera was pushed forward. Merton Gill hardly dared look up, but he knew it was halted at no great distance from him. “Now, here’s rather a good little bit,” Henshaw was saying. “You, there, the girl in black, go on—tease him the way you were, and he’s to give you that same look. Got that cigarette going? All ready. Lights! Camera!” Merton was achieving his first close-up. Under the hum of the lights he was thinking that he had been a fool not to learn dancing, no matter how the Reverend Otto Carmichael denounced it as a survival from the barbaric Congo. He was also thinking that the Montague girl ought to be kept away from people who were trying to do really creative things, and he was bitterly regretting that he had no silver cigarette case. The gloom of his young face was honest gloom. He was aware that his companion leaned vivaciously toward him with gay chatter and gestures. Very slowly he inhaled from a cigarette that was already distasteful—adding no little to the desired effect—and very slowly he exhaled as he raised to hers the bored eyes of a soul quite disillusioned. Here, indeed, was the blight of Broadway.
“All right, first rate!” called Henshaw. “Now get this bunch down here.” The camera was pushed on.
“Gee, that was luck!” said the girl. “Of course it’ll be cut to a flash, but I bet we stand out, at that.” She was excited now, no longer needing to act.