Though they had left the Metropolitan long before the final curtain, on
Broadway the midnight tidal bore of motor traffic was even then
gathering way and volume, the first waves of after-theatre patrons were
washing the doorsteps of those sturdy restaurants which had withstood
the blast of Prohibition, the foyer of the Palais Royal already held a
throng of some proportions. In this omnium-gatherum of confirmed New
Yorkers and self-determined suburbicides, arrayed in every graduation of
formal, semi-formal and informal dress, and drawn together by the happy
coup of that year's press-agent in heralding the establishment as a
favorite resort of what the Four Million still styles its Four Hundred,
the women stood grouped in their wraps and wistfully watching their
men-folk importune a headwaiter who was heroically holding the staircase
against all-comers, passing only the fore-handed in the matter of
reservations, and putting all others to ignominious rout with the
standardized statement that there was not a table upstairs left untaken.
At first glance, the huge main room on the second story, with its
serried semicircles of tables and its flamboyant colour scheme, seemed
less frequented by clients than by waiters; but the influx of the former
was constant, and when, shortly after Lucinda and Daubeney had been
seated, a gang of incurable melomaniacs crashed, blared and whanged into
a jazz fox-trot, the oval dance floor was quickly hidden by swaying
couples.
For some minutes Lucinda sat looking out over without seeing these
herded dancers, only aware of the shifting swirl of colour and the
hypnotic influence of savage music, her thoughts far from this decadent
adaptation of jungle orgies which she had come to witness. And presently
a smile began to flicker in the depths of her eyes.
"Oh!" she said, rousing when Daubeney uttered a note of
interrogation--"I was thinking about this afternoon, remembering that
funny little man moping and mowing in his magnificent delusion that he
was conducting an orchestra."
"It was amusing, illuminating, too. One begins to understand why the
movies are what they are. If I'm not mistaken, the author of that
asinine exhibition is rated as one of the ablest directors in the
business."
Lucinda quoted Mr. Lane's eulogy of King Laughlin.
"Well, there you are," Dobbin commented. "I presume genius must be
humoured in its poses; even so, I saw nothing in Laughlin's directing to
offset the silliness of his performance with the orchestra. I should say
the business is poorly organized that permits men of his calibre, with
so little sense of balance, to hold positions of absolute authority."
"You don't think Mr. Lane may have exaggerated Mr. Laughlin's
importance----"
"Perhaps; though he was honoured with suspicious reverence by everybody
present."
"Except Mr. Culp."
"Well, yes; Culp didn't seem so much overpowered. All the same, I
noticed he didn't attempt to call Laughlin to order."
"But possibly the man _is_ a genius. He seemed to know what he was about
when he was showing them how to play that scene."
"I'll admit his grasp of primary mechanics; but the scene as he built it
would have been ridiculous in the theatre."
"But it wasn't for a theatre, it was for the movies."
"Precisely my point. Why should motion-picture plays be less plausibly
done than plays on the stage? The American theatre outgrew 'Nellie, the
Beautiful Cloak Model' long before motion-pictures were seriously
thought of; I mean, American audiences outgrew such trash. Yet today our
movies are shaped on identically the lines of the popular melodrama that
was laughed off the boards a generation ago. There's something wrong."
For some reason which Lucinda didn't stop to analyze, Daubeney's
arguments stirred up a spirit of contentiousness.
"At all events, Mr. and Mrs. Culp seemed satisfied."
"Two people who have made a huge lot of money in an astonishingly short
time: it isn't likely they'd be disposed to interfere with the system
that enriched them, even allowing that they are sensible of its
defects."
Lucinda caught herself frowning, then had the grace to laugh. "Can't
make me believe they're lacking in artistic appreciation, Dobbin."
"Why not?"
"You don't know about the handsome offer Mr. Culp made me, with his
wife's approval, just as we were going away."
It was Dobbin's turn to frown. "What kind of an offer?" he demanded
shortly.
"To become a movie actress under the Culp banner, a sister-in-art to
Alma Daley."
Daubeney ejaculated "What for?" with an expression of such utter
dumbfounderment that Lucinda gasped with stifled mirth, then gave way to
outright laughter.
"You're awfully funny, Dobbin! And they thought they were paying me a
compliment."
But Daubeney would not see the fun of it.
"Do you mean to tell me that fellow Culp actually had the
impertinence----"
"Oh, come!" Lucinda's amusement subsided. "It wasn't so bad as all that.
Mr. Culp was most kind, at least he meant to be. He said he, his wife
and his cameraman--whose opinion he values more highly than any
director's--all agreed I had shown a great deal of promise; and that, if
I cared to try it on, he'd be glad to give me a good part in Miss
Daley's next picture, and if I made good in that he'd form a company to
star me."
"What rot!"
"Dobbin!"
"They're trying to work you----"
"But, my dear! isn't it barely possible Mr. Culp was sincere?"
"The thing's absurd on the face of it."
"Isn't that a matter of opinion?"
"It's a characteristic scheme to exploit you to Alma Daley's profit, to
get her a lot of publicity on the cheap by letting the newspapers
announce that Mrs. Bellamy Druce is going to act in her support."
"You won't admit, then," Lucinda persisted, nettled, "I may possibly
have some latent ability as a motion-picture actress?"
"It doesn't matter. The proposition is a piece of--of preposterous
impudence. What did you say to Culp?"
With countenance half averted, Lucinda said coldly: "My dear Dobbin: do
you realize you're being rude?"
He was all contrition. "Oh, I'm sorry, Cinda, if I let my indignation on
your behalf----"
"Gratuitous, you'll admit."
Daubeney reddened and swallowed hard. "I repeat: I didn't mean to
offend. I apologize."
"Very well, Dobbin. Let's say no more about it."
But Lucinda's tone lacked friendliness, and the eyes were visibly sulky
that, refusing to recognize his pleading, blindly surveyed the milling
riot of dancers.
The silence that fell between them, like a curtain of muffling folds,
was presently emphasized by an abrupt suspension of the music. When
Daubeney could endure it no longer, he broke it with a question, the
most impolitic conceivable: "You didn't tell me what answer you gave
Culp, Cinda?"
"Didn't I? But I'm sure it doesn't matter."