"Guess so, ma'm, didn't catch her name. Her and you registered like a million dollars."
"It's awfully nice of you to tell me so, Mr. Timilty——"
"Jack wouldn't pass you a compliment unless he meant it, Mrs. Druce. He's no kidder."
"Anyway I guess it ain't the first time anybody's told you that, ma'm. It's easy to see you've been camera-broke."
"But I haven't," Lucinda protested, laughing. "Really, I assure you——"
At this juncture Mr. Willing called for Mr. Timilty's co-operation in taking the test of Jean Sedley. So Lucinda stood aside and watched and wondered if it were really true that she had shown any evidences of ability out of the ordinary.
Not that it mattered.
Nevertheless the little fillip administered to her self-esteem made her feel more contented; into the bargain, it deepened her interest in the business in hand.
Mr. Willing seemed to be taking a deal of pains to make fair and thorough tests. For each of the four women he improvised brief but effective solo scenes to bring out their best points, if nothing that made severe demands upon the ability of the subject or the invention of the director.
Lucinda, for example, was discovered to the camera arranging flowers in a vase. A servant entered, delivered a letter, retired. Lucinda recognized the handwriting, and (the word was new to her in this application) "registered" delight, then—as, smiling, she opened and read the letter—bewilderment, misgivings, and a shock of cruel revelation which strangled all joy of living in her, struck her down, and left her crushed and cringing in a chair.