She impulsively caressed one of the hands that lay on the quilt; retained it, looking at Eris with increasing interest and kindness. Suddenly, for one fleeting moment, the subtle warning that a pretty woman feels in discovering greater beauty in another, touched Betsy Blythe. And passed.
“I’m in pictures,” she said, smilingly. “I should have told you that first. I have my own company now. When you are quite recovered, will you come and see me?”
“Yes, thank you.” The eyes of Eris were great wells of limpid grey; her lips, a trifle apart, burned deep scarlet.
“You are so pretty,” said Betsy,—“do you test well?”
“They thought so.”
“The Crystal Film people?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have Mr. Sneyd give you another test. He’ll make you up. Or I will. You know, of course, that it won’t be a part that amounts to anything.”
“Oh, yes.”
“But it will be a part. We’ll carry you—not like an extra, you see——” Betsy rose, went over to a little desk, wrote her address and brought it to Eris.