She nodded with a swift intake of breath—let him draw her arm through his. They followed the little crowd now moving toward the review room.
Seated together there in the semi-darkness, they watched Frank Donnell and Max Stoll take their places at desks on a raised platform behind them. A stenographer, with pad and pencil, came in and seated herself at Donnell’s elbow.
Out went the lights except the green-shaded globe on Donnell’s desk. The screen sprang into silvery relief.
Donnell half turned, looking up over his shoulder toward the concealed operator above:
“All right, Jim. Don’t speed her too much. About 85. And watch your frames.”
“Are you ready, Mr. Donnell?”
“Go ahead.”
No continuity was attempted. There were no titles, not even scratch ones. Take followed take, faded or irised out. Nobody unacquainted with the story could possibly follow it.
In the darkness and silence there was no sound except the droning of the machine, and Donnell’s calm voice occasionally,—“Frame! Frame her, Jim!” And whispered exclamations of approval at some unusually beautiful shot of Stoll’s, or at some fragment revealing Betsy, radiantly in action, or a butterfly flash of Nancy Cassell, or a lovely glimpse of Eris.