But could she? Would Lorena LeMar’s friends permit it? What did those friends expect?
“Ah, well, time will tell,” she sighed.
“And besides, there is that so beautiful story, the movie story of mountain life, life of Lincoln’s own country, where he was born. One cannot forget, one must not forget!
“When the dogwood is in bloom,” she murmured. “If only I can do it! If only I can!
“Ah, well,” she consoled herself, “Lorena LeMar belongs in California. All her friends are there, or nearly all. They must be.”
That she was mistaken in this, she was to know, and that almost at once. As she left the hotel elevator on the way home, a hand touched her arm. She turned about to find herself looking into a pair of smiling eyes.
“I’m Jerry,” the boy was saying. “You remember me, don’t you, Miss LeMar? Could I—”
For a second Jeanne’s head spun, then she found her senses and her ready French tongue.
“No, no, Jerry! No dates! I’m out on the lot, doing a picture, you know. It—it’s dreadfully important. Sorry, Jerry. Good-bye.”
“There now,” she whispered to herself as she leaped into a taxi, “I got away with it.”