“Indeed, yes,” she replied; “but we are still only rehearsing; not a scene has been shot. You see, that makes it all so expensive; I want to do as well as possible for the men who have money and confidence in me.”
This, from her manner, her deceptive look of fragility everywhere drooping with regret, was patent. What she said, thought, felt, was magnificently reflected, given visibility, by her fluid being. “But you haven't come over here to talk to me about that,” she said directly; “you want me to give up Peyton.”
He nodded, relieved that she had made the introduction of his purpose so easy.
“I ought to tell you, before we begin,” she warned him, “that I can't. Nothing can convince me that we are wrong. We didn't try to have this happen, we did all we could—but it was too late—to prevent it,” Mina Raff repeated Peyton's own assurance to him. “Things were taken out of our hands. Why I went to Eastlake I don't know, it was dreadfully inconvenient, and my director did what he could to keep me working. But, as you know, I persisted. Why?” She stopped and regarded him imploringly, through the romantic veil. “I haven't the smallest idea,” she continued. “Peyton had seen me again in New York; I knew then that I meant a lot to him; but it couldn't have happened if I hadn't stayed with Anette.”
Her voice, her wonderment, he thought, were colored by superstition. Evidently, up to a certain point, she had resisted, and then—how charming it must have been for Morris—she collapsed. She had convinced herself that they were intended for each other. Lee asked, “How well do you know Peyton?”
“Not at all in the way you do,” she admitted candidly; “I understand him only with my heart. But isn't that everything? I know that he is very pure, and doesn't ordinarily care for women—usually I have no feeling about men—and that he played football at Princeton and is very strong. You have no idea, Mr. Randon, how different he is from the men I am thrown with! There are some actors, of course, who are very fine, wonderful to work with; but the ones not quite so finished.... It's natural, for many reasons, in a woman to act; but there is something, well—something, about men acting, as a rule; don't you agree?”
Lee did, and told her so with a growing pleasure in the rightness of her perceptions. “Peyton is altogether different from the men of the stage,” he developed her observation; “and it is a capital thing he did play football; for, in the next year or so, until he grows used to your life, he'll have a collection of men to knock down. I'd like to tell you whatever I have discovered about him, for your own consideration, and Peyton is a snob. That isn't necessarily a term of contempt; with him it simply means that he is impatient, doubtful, at what he doesn't know. And first under that head come the arts; they have no existence for him or his friends. A play or a book pleases him or it doesn't, he approves of its limiting conventional morals, or violently condemns what he thinks is looseness, and that's the extent of his interest.”
Mina Raff gazed at him blankly, this time from under the scallops of the veil. “That is hard to believe,” she objected; “he talks to me beautifully about my pictures and a future on the stage. He says that I am going to revolutionize moving pictures—”
“I don't question that,” he put in; “but did Peyton show you how it would be done?”
She hesitated, gracefully lowering her potent gaze.