“You wrote it? How—how wonderful!” Jeanne stretched a slim white hand across the table. Tom Tobin grasped it frankly. “Here’s luck!” His frank eyes shone.
“And here’s our coffee. How jolly!” Fear had flown from Jeanne’s eyes. She was her own bright, joyous self once more.
“But how could you know I am to make a success of your picture?” she demanded eagerly. “I do not know it myself.”
“Old Sollie, Mr. Soloman, your producer, told me. He’s all het up about it; says you showed him how to make a great picture of it and get a lot of free publicity. He’s working on the scene, got men after real mountain ivy and rhododendrons and dogwood. Sent for two log cabins like the ones in the Lincoln Group, and all that.
“Say!” he exclaimed, “Suppose we get together and work over the dialogue and all that! Sollie says you know a lot about the mountains.”
“No, I’ve never been there.”
“But he told me—”
“Yes, I know.” Jeanne smiled. “I have a friend who prompted me. She has lived there all her life.”
“Then she’ll help us. We’ll work it over together, beginning to-morrow afternoon.”
“That—” Jeanne favored him with her loveliest smile. “That—how do you say it? That is a go! Eh, what?”