I am at the studio, where I had them run off your test of
yesterday morning. You see, I didn't waste any time. And I'm sorry
to tell you that you won't do for the screen. One cannot explain
it. Your skin, your features, your hair--everything about you is
beautiful. And you have brains. But the camera is a tricky and
unreasonable thing. All of that beauty and charm which is yours
fails to register upon the screen. I cannot tell you how sorry I
am, and I shall be only too glad to let you see the test yourself,
so that you will not possibly doubt my good faith. If, in any
other way, I can be of service to you, please command.
Yours faithfully,
ZENDA.
All her illusions were shattered. She didn't wish to see the test. She
believed Zenda.
Slowly her sobs ceased. She had no lack of courage. Also, she was young,
and youth turns from defeat to future victory in a moment's time.
Carefully, as she bathed, she removed the traces of tears. Dressed, she
breakfasted at the Trevor. Then, feeling more lonely than she had ever
felt in her life, she went out upon Fifth Avenue. Groups of people were
entering a church a block away. She was not a particularly devout young
person, but she had been a regular churchgoer at Zenith. She walked up
the avenue and into the church. She expected no consolation there; a
girl or boy of twenty who can acquire consolation from religion is not
exactly normal. Age turns to religion; youth away from it. But she did
manage to forget herself in the solemn service, the mellow music.
Emerging, she envied the groups that paused to chat with each other. In
Zenith, she knew everybody, would have also stopped to exchange comment
and gossip. But here--she had failed in her great ambition. The rest was
makeshift, a stop-gap until--until what? She didn't know. Vaguely she
wondered where Randall was. Probably hundreds of miles beyond Chicago
now.
And then, as she crossed the square, her heart leaped. For she saw him
reluctantly descending the steps of her lodging house. She quickened her
pace. He saw her. His reluctant tread also quickened. Unmindful of the
drifts, Randall plowed across the street and joined her. She wondered
why he had not started on his Western trip.
And then Clancy's heart, which had been beating joyously with a gladness
that she did not quite understand, seemed to drop to some region inches
below where it belonged. For, coming round the corner of Thompson
Street--no, not coming, but stopping as he perceived her--was Spofford,
the dyed-mustached detective of Vandervent's office. And with him was a
shorter slighter person. Fear aided recognition. He was the elevator-man
of the Heberworth Building, who had taken her up to Beiner's office last
Tuesday afternoon.