Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1922)

scratching of branches against her window. She snuggled down under the scanty blankets and pulled her sable coat more tightly about her. But the cold had penetrated her slim, exquisite body and she shivered again and again. Physical discomfort was the one thing that drove her utterly wild. What a fool she had been to consent to do this outdoor stuff in winter! What a complete idiot to let them persuade her to come without her maid! Her nerves protested violently against the invisible fingers that seemed trying to tear away the walls of the ugly, bare bedroom. "I can't stand this," said Amory with a gulp, and jumped out of bed. In the pitch darkness, there was no one to see that leap. It had been, actually, Amory's leap to fame. Many times in many places, audiences great and small had thrilled to see Amory spring from strange, satin couches and stand before them in bewildering, negligeed loveliness. Now she put her feet into silly, silken mules, wrapped her furs about her and slipped into the hall. It was very dark, but she hoped that a glimmer of fire might remain in the huge fireplace of the main hall, to warm and lighten her. As she passed the last door, the dimples flickered into her white face, and she knocked. Then fled down the stairs. Peter Gray had not been sleeping. Which was a very unusual proceeding for Peter. The wind and the snow and the cold had no effect upon Peter. He liked them. He was used to batting about on hunting trips, and taking care of himself. He had learned all about discomfort in the trenches and it no longer had power to annoy . him. A big, strong, capable, selfconfident young chap. The new type of leading man. Suggesting an engineer, a mining expert, a bridgebuilder, almost anything rather than an actor. For the past hour he had resolutely counted sheep. It was typical of Peter that he should pit that ancient superstition against the turmoil that rode him, the clamor of heart and senses that had been stirring him ever since the company came into this wilderness to make snow stuff. But between him and the fence over which said sheep should have jumped came continually the picture of a little, pointed face, of eyes that were the color of a dark topaz. The very first time Peter saw her, at the studio a day or two after he had been sent out by the New York office to play opposite her, he had a dizzy, heart-pounding breathless second, such as follows the first drag at an opium pipe. Nine out of ten men who saw Amory Allen had that same sensation. One of the shrewdest producers in the business paid her a thousand dollars a week chiefly on account of it. Still, no one had ever been able to determine exactly why slim, fragile Amory, with her pure brow and her delicate sweetness, should stir the elemental forces of life to such strange issues. There was no voluptuousness, no siren call, no startling lure of the fleshpots. Rather the lure of a honeypot. Subtle, she was. Full of suggestions that stole on the senses like incense in a temple. Men gazed upon the masses of her bronzy curls and immediately 72 About the rough stone fireplace hung a glimmer of rose and flame. And in shoulders and her big topaz eyes very wide open. With her little hands dreamed them against a background of scented baby pillows. A famous critic had once compared Amory Allen to lavender and pink hyacinths in a Grecian vase. Peter's first, throbbing response to her had been followed by a steady glow of sensation. So that, lying awake on the hard, lumpy bed, he sought sleep in vain. The knock startled him. A ghost-knock it was, yet somehow real. He wondered if his too-wakeful brain had played him a trick. But Peter's brain was not apt to play him tricks. He was, or had been, a very well-balanced, sensible young man. In fact, an amazingly well-balanced young man for an actor. Well, he had heard a knock. Then, he caught the sound of fairy footsteps on the stairs. He buttoned his sweater over his trousers; laced his sneakers with fingers that shook. Answered that ghost-knock. Followed those fairy footsteps. There was the faintest glimmer of light in the great, raftered