“No.” Her lips were compressed.
“But, Sue—that's outrageous! It's fanatical!”
“Maybe it is. I can't help it,”
“You mean the frankness—the costuming—”
She pressed her hands over her eyes. “And people from here will be slipping in to see it—sneaking in when they think their neighbors won't see them—and seeing me on exhibition there! And they will whisper. Oh, the vulgarity of it!... Jacob, don't talk about it. I can't! Please!”
He studied her, through narrowed eyes. “The poor kid is going through it!” he thought. “I had no idea!” Deliberately, with the coldness, the detachment, of his race, he considered the problem. At length he said:
“I'll tell you my main errand, Sue. I've got an enormous new production on. It's in my hands, too, as director. Silverstone gives me carte blanche—that's his way. Big man. Now I've got an eye in my head. I've seen our Nature run off. And I happen to know that the big movie star of to-morrow, the sensation of them all, is Miss Sue Wilde. You don't realize that, of course. All right! Don't try to. But do try to get this. I want you for my new production. And I can offer you more money than you ever saw in all your life. Not two thousand a week, like Mabel Wakeford, but a lot. And still you'll be cheaper to my company than women not half so good who have built up a market value in the film business. It will be a bargain for us. I brought out a contract ready for you to sign. Salary begins to-morrow if you say the word. Would you like to read it over?”
Her hands were still over her eyes. She shook her head.
Instead of pressing his business he went on quietly studying her. He studied the house, too; and the street. After a time he consulted a time-table and his watch.
“Sue,” he said then, “I'm disappointed.”