Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1925)

Photoplay Magazine — Advertising Section 35 told him, "and would only be in the way. Take a look around our fair city. Meet me for luncheon — here. I've got to face the lions Face them alone she did. It seemed amazingly queer to be walking along the familiar streets, feeling like a stranger. She was z. stranger, to most of the persons she passed. Breakfast, with Steve, had been late, it was now after ten, and most of the people Syhia knew, her friends and acquaintances in the screen world, were at work on the various lots. With the e.xception of a camera-man, one or two extra girls, she saw nobody who seemed to recognize her, and even they passed her with puzzled looks, as though not at all certain who she was. Of tUs Sylvia was glad; knowing what Hollywood thought about her, she came to her meeting with it, raw and bleeding, ready to be intolerably hurt by every word, every smile, even ever>' passing glance. The usual busy hum pervaded the corridors of the big gray studio building as Sylvia passed the gates with a swift nod to the bewildered gateman and hurried to Paul Lamar's quarters. She hoped to find him in, but did not feel at all sure of it. Most probably he would anything has happened to help me. You see, I came to you first, because you know everything, and" — "I wonder," Paul Lamar interrupted. "Sometimes I am convinced I don't know anything. But if you mean about your particular affairs, I'm as ignorant as a cigar store Indian Haven't heard a blessed [thing, except thit Sydney Harmon has disappeared I presume you know that." .-ia tol .ment from her voice If he is gone, I'm afraid I'm up agamst it Hi-, wife hates me. And Jean Martm won t waste any time trj-ing to patch up my reputation It's just like a blank wall, Mr. Lamar a blank stone wall. I can't climb it — see o\ er it — and I can't smash it down. I came back to hght but — what am I going to fight? W indmiUs? Like Don Quixote? There doesn't seem to be an> thing else, does there?" "Fight anyway. Keep on fighting That s all anybody can do. If I see any chance to help, I will. A good many people in Hollj wood believe in you. If I were in jour place the first thing I'd do would be to g!\ e an mter view to the newspapers! — tell them — the QUZANNE VIDOR, the lovely little daughter of Florence Vidor, was spending Sunday with her mother and some other friends at the beach house of Mr. and Mrs. C. Gardner Sullivan (Ann May). The Sullivans have a great roomy house, and Ann makes everything so lovely that you can nearly always find a gang around on Sunday. On this occasion Fred and Enid Bennett Niblo, and then daughter Loris, and a lot of other folks were on the beach. Ann, as you may remember, is a very ingenue person — physically, not mentally — and just over five feet in height. After watching her romping on the beach with the children for a while, Suzanne came to her mother with a very v;orried face and whispered, "Mother, I think Ann is lovely, but she really isn't old enough to be married to anybody yet." be on the lot, with "The Miracle of Xotre Dame" under way. But to Sylvia's delight, his secretary'. Miss Ream, after survejnng her with a gasp of astonishment, came back from the inner office with the information that Mr. Lamar would see her at once. She found him, big, grave, more than usually serious, standing beside his desk, his hat on, a riding crop in his hand. "Sylvia, Sylvia," he said, staring at her sombrely, "what wouldn't I give if you had come professionally." "Why — what do you mean?" Sylvia asked as she shook his hand. "Is anything, the matter?" "Everything is the matter, child.' I'm speaking to you as a friend, so I know what I say won't go any further. This Moore girl is driving me mad. Charming, beautiful, butoh, so dumb. I shall make a great picture with her, of course." He smiled confidently. "I always do that. But it is costing me a shattered nervous system. Why, she can't walk into a room without being told how to do it, and as for registering anything subtle — any mental light and shade — I might as well be dealing with a mechanical doll." He threw up his hands with a whimsical groan. "If you had been playing the part of Celeste, as you should have, I might have got through the summer without going to a sanitarium. As it is, I'm ready for the padded cell right now." He bent the riding crop between his powerful hands until it seemed in danger of breaking. Sylvia smiled at him wistfully, contemplating a shattered dream. "I haven't come back e.xpecting that the woman who took my place is going to be thrown out and the big part given to me. Such things don't happen — e.xcept in popular fiction. But I did come back to fight for my good name, Mr. Lamar, and I'm wondering if public — you're back to fight for your rights. Set up your banner — you'll have a lot of recruits gathering around you. Tell the world what really happened that night — you ought to have done so long ago — and dare Mrs. Harmon or anybody else to dispute it. Dare her to go ahead with her divorce suit. Say you'd like nothing better than to go on the witness stand and tell the truth. Carry the fight into the enemy's camp. Smoke them out. Start something." He waved his riding crop menacingly about his head, like a broadsword. "That's what I do, when I'm attacked. Hit back. With all my might. Everybody loves a good fighter. Go to it." Sylvia caught his enthusiasm. "I will," she said. "You're perfectly right. I can't tell you how I thank you." She put out her hand and Lamar bent over it with the grace of a sixteenth century courtier. "Lady," he said, "I pledge my hand and heart in your service. Right now, however, I must run along and continue the delightful experiment of trying to make a silk purse out of — no, I mustn't say that. The poor child is trying her best, but, oh, so dumb." He opened the door, and together they walked out. Sylvia went back to the hotel to wait for Steve. While waiting, she wrote out with great care an exact statement of what occurred on that fateful night when Sydney Harmon staggered into the bungalow. Inspired by what Paul Lamar had said, her fingers fairly flew over the sheets of paper, the words came full-formed in her mind, she wrote fiercely, bitterly, with a pen dipped in fire. The great director was right. She must hit these people who had ruined her — hit them savagely, with all her might, her weapon the sword of truth. She was still writing furiously when Steve called up from the lobby and armounced that he was ready for lunch. ?!!!DIAMONDSD!REci By Mail and for Cash from Jason Weiler & Sons Boston, Mass. 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