The door of the outer corridor kept opening and closing to admit professionals arriving late. The darkness was becoming thronged with people standing back against the door and walls.
Once, as Betsy was enduring a chaste embrace from Wally Crawford, the film broke. Everybody joined in the gaiety. Then the little audience re-settled itself with scrape of chair and rustle of skirt as Donnell’s shaded globe glimmered out, revealing a crowded room.
Annan leaned over toward Betsy: “Good work,” he said cordially. “You’re splendid. I hope the story is as clever.”
“Thank you, Barry. Frank thinks it ought to go over.”
“It’s beautifully cast and beautifully kissed, Betsy!”
Coltfoot’s voice from the dark: “—But the censor won’t let you kiss anybody but your grandmother.”
“Great stuff, Betsy,” added Rosalind from somewhere. “God and the Middle West will forgive that kiss!”
“All set, Mr. Donnell,” came the operator’s voice from above.
“Go ahead!” The light in the shaded globe snapped off; the drone of the machine filled the room. On the screen Eris, in a rowboat, rested on her oars and laughed at Betsy swimming toward her, pursued by her young man. His permanent wave defied the waves.
Annan thought: “Betsy is sure an artist or she’d never stand for the beauty of this child, Eris.... I wonder how long she can afford to stand for it?”