We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
1
(Forty-nine)
bench to the davenport. She moves in a series of hops, for you see, she is very young and not at all languorous or Oriental or anything but Youth incarnate, feeling the glory of a successful career at eighteen.
Whenever there is a benefit performance given by the movies in Los Angeles for a charity, Marguerite is called upon to dance. She dances on her tip-toes, like Pavlova, for she spent many long' years since leaving Duluth in the company of Terpsichore. She even attempted the stage, once, in a stock, company at San Diego. John Griffith Wray owned the company, and in later years this eminent producer became her director at the Ince studio. Such is life. Threads cross and recross, we know not whence or when.
This interview did not go as planned. The stage setting was all right, but the cues missed fire. After the door was opened by the maid, who promptly informed the interviewer that she did not think Miss de la Motte could see anyone, and the proper credentials had been presented, tljere was the formal and customary wait. The interviewer took stock of the living-room. The Oriental influence, the incense, the heavy * drapes, the battered, but picturesque harp with a few strings missing ( Continued on page 91)
By
GORDON GASSAWAY
posed a piece — on the piano. I’ll be personal enough to play it for you if you’ll listen and not shuffle your feet. I cant play for people who shuffle their feet.”
“Please do,” he begged. “I will not shuffle my feet.”
The music rolled from under the pink tips of her fingers in a suppressed orgy of melody. It was some Oriental thing.
“I call it ‘Shattered Idols,’ ” she said, across the top of the music rack. “Do you like it ?”
“I’m crazy about it,” he answered. She played it again.
“It has good rhythm, I think,” she said. “I was once a dancer, you know.
I might have been a very good dancer — if I hadn’t gone into pictures when I was fourteen !”
The interviewer, for it was he — and he was I — untangled his feet whence they had been tangled, lest they shuffle, and assumed again the interviewesque pose. She —
and “she” was Marguerite de la Motte — hopped from the piano
. . . the delicate oval of her face which was fairer than the juice of pomegranates mixed with cream . . . the fine line of her straight brows . . . the full lower lip that pouted a little . . .
\