"It isn't a bit interesting. I was born in a little town named Warburton, in New Jersey. My father was John Judd. He had a grocery store and was a leading citizen. My mother was an actress."
"Ah!" said Christiansen.
"The company she was with went broke in our town, and she stayed on as cashier in Judd's store. He married her and I was the only child. She died when I was twenty; my father followed when I was twenty-two. I sold the grocery, paid the debts, and came to New York to be an author."
She paused and turned her slow, rare smile on him. She had the ability to sit perfectly still, her hands quiet in her lap. Christiansen marked the trait; valued it.
"What made you want to write?"
"I had always been a reader. I read everything in the Warburton Public Library, I think. When I was in High School I wrote some stories which the local editor published, under an assumed name. My mother thought I had great talent, and I was tempted to agree with her," she smiled.
"How long did your funds last, in New York?"
"Not long. I did not have much in the first place. I realized before the money was gone that I must take any job I could find. I was not prepared to do anything."
"Same old story. How did you get work in the studios?"
"Answered Mr. Paxton's advertisement. I've been there ever since. I didn't care what I did, just so I made a living. My real life is here, with my true work."