The motion-picture manager turned his head slowly and gave him a cryptic look. Then he knocked the ashes from his cigar, stuck it in the other corner of his mouth, and resumed sadly:
“It was that dance of hers. That’s what took me! At the church sociable, colonel. Believe me, I was never so thrilled in my life. I was doin’ the town, looking for a place”—Mr. Bernstein waved his hand with a melancholy air—“for this place, sir. Well, I was goin’ down Main Street, an’ I see them headlights. ‘Something doing here,’ thinks I, ‘an’ I’ll have a look.’ Didn’t expect anything; but somehow I went in, an’ the very first thing I see is that dance. Gee whiz! I says to myself: ‘Sammy Bernstein, this is your lucky day; this is a find!’”
Colonel Denbigh laid down the stump of his cigar and pulled his mustache.
“I suppose you’ve asked her?”
“I did. And I’ll say right now that I don’t think—what’s his name?—Mr. William Henry Carter’s got any horse-sense. He took on as if I’d insulted him when I was offerin’ his wife five hundred dollars a week. That’s what I offered, Colonel Denbigh—five hundred dollars a week, good money.”
The colonel looked reflective.
“I’m afraid we’re behind the times down here, Mr. Bernstein. I reckon Mr. Carter doesn’t like publicity. We’re quiet, backwoods people, sir,” he added with a twinkle. “I know the lady. She’s mighty pretty, and I agree with you she’d make a mighty fine picture. Just the style you want, too.”
“No, sir, not my style. The public—well, it’s this way. They like ’em small, an’ this lady’s just the pattern—a cute, dark little thing. Personally”—Mr. Bernstein sighed—“I like ’em large. Now there’s Rosamond Silvertree—you know her, of course, colonel?”
Again the colonel smoothed his mustache thoughtfully.
“Can’t say that I do, sir,” he replied gently. “Pretty name, though?”