“It’s a very pretty mountain, Mr. Soloman. But it’s not right.”
“What’s this? Not right, you say?” He stared in unfeigned astonishment.
“This story,” she went on, “is about Big Black Mountain. You have pines, young pines all over it. There are no pines on Big Black Mountain. There is mountain ivy, rhododendrons and dogwood in bloom. That’s the title, ‘When the Dogwood Is in Bloom.’ Where is it? Not a twig!”
“But Miss LeMar, you know—”
“Yes, I know.” Jeanne was going fast now. “You think the story can never be on the screen. What of that? These people who come to see pictures taken, many of them have traveled in the mountains of Kentucky and Virginia. They will look at your mountain and laugh.”
“Laugh? Laugh at me! At Abe Soloman!” The little director fairly danced. “I shall have it changed. You shall have your way, your ivy and your dogwood and what was it you said?”
“Rhododendrons.”
“Yes, and your dogwood, all over the lot.”
“Oh, thanks, Mr. Soloman.” The queen held out an imaginary sceptre.
“And Mr. Soloman,” Jeanne had intended going no further that day, but an irresistible impulse carried her on, “we can make a success of this picture, a real big success!”