“But what was there to do?
“I went. He has taught me how to act in pictures, this little Jew, your friend, my friend, Mr. Soloman.” There was a touch almost of reverence in his voice. “And now, here I am,” he concluded.
“And, Miss LeMar—” His eyes appeared to look into her very soul. So deep was her feeling at that moment that she actually feared he was reading her true name from her very eyes. But he was not. “Miss LeMar,” he repeated softly, “tell me that this picture, this ‘Dogwood in Bloom’ story, is to be a success, a real success!”
“Pietro,” her hand was on his arm, “if you and I and all the rest can make it a success, then it shall be—a grand, a very glorious success. I can say no more.”
“Good!”
Putting out a hand, solemn as a priest in a temple, he lifted her white fingers to his lips and kissed them.
Then, as if a little ashamed, he sprang to his feet to lead the way back down the mountain.
CHAPTER XXIII
GOLDEN DAYS
It was night. All alone Jeanne sat upon the side of that man-made section of Big Black Mountain there on the studio lot in Chicago. The faint light that reached her, coming from afar, served only to intensify the shadows of trees and shrubs all about her.
It was perfect, this bit of Big Black Mountain. The trees, the shrubs, the rocks, the little rushing stream, all were perfect.