But now the passion which before had kept him hopping and screaming had passed into a subdued and plaintive phase; Mr. Laughlin was suffering for and with the heroine whose woes were to be projected before the eyes and into the hearts of half the world. He did not actually cry, but his features were knotted with the anguish that wrung his heart, and his voice was thick with sobs.
"Now, dear, you're coming to—you just lift your head and look up, dazed. You don't realize what's happened yet, you hardly know where you are. Where am I, my God! where am I? That's it—beautiful. Now it begins to come to you—you remember what's happened, you get it. He has cast you off—O my God! he has deserted you. Fine—couldn't be better—you're great, dear, simply great. Now go on—begin to cry, let the big tears well up from your broken heart and trickle down your cheeks. Fine! Cry harder, dear—you must cry harder, this scene will go all flooey if you can't cry any harder than that. Think what he was to you—and now he has left you—who knows?—perhaps for-ev-er! Your heart is breaking, dear, it's breaking, and nobody cares. Can't you cry harder? Listen to the music and.... Good God! how d'you expect anybody to cry to music like that?"
The last was a shriek of utter exasperation; and bounding to his feet the little man darted furiously at the musicians, stopping in front of the trio and beginning to beat time with an imaginary baton.
"Follow me, please—get this, the way I feel it. So—slowly—draw it out—hold it—get a little heart-break into it!"
And strangely enough he did manage to infuse a little of his fine fervour into the three. They abandoned their lethargic postures, sat up, and began to play with some approach to feeling; while posing before them, swaying from the toes of one foot to the toes of the other, his hands weaving rhythms of emotion in the air, the absurd creature threw back his head, shut his eyes, and wreathed his thin lips with a beatific smile.
Throughout, on the floor, before the camera, under that cruel glare of lights, Alma Daley strained her face toward the lens and cried as if her heart must surely break, real tears streaming down her face—but cried with fine judgment, never forgetting that woman must be lovely even in woe.
And while Lucinda watched, looking from one to the other, herself threatened with that laughter which is akin to tears, a strange voice saluted her.
"Saw me coming," it observed, "and had to show off. He's a great little actor, that boy, and no mistake—never misses a chance. Look't him now: you'd never guess he wasn't thinking about anything but whether I'm falling for this new stunt of his, would you?"
Lucinda looked around. Mr. Lane had mysteriously effaced himself. In his place sat a stout man of middle-age with a sanguine countenance of Semitic type, shrewd and hard but good-humoured.
"How d'you do?" he said genially. "Mrs. Druce, ain't it? Culp's my name, Ben Culp."