The Picture Show Annual (1928)

78 Pieture Show Annual who had brought her up was dead, and George was some- thing to care for. Lucille s life had not been an eventful one, and save for those few exciting weeks when she had worked as a super for the Sunset Film Co. she had known very little of the society of people of her own age. By and by George turned to her. " Really like to see that film ? " he said, and added, almost breathless at his own magnificence. " I'll take you if you like." " George, how wonderful of you ! I'd love it ! " Lucille found herself saying what he expected, almost by instinct. " Right, ' said George. " Just to show you I'm a forgiving sort of chap, Lucy, come on." They turned back, and five minutes later a torch girl showed them into the third row of the " two-and-four- pennies." The cinema was fairly crowded, and as George pushed and kicked his way into his seat, Lucille s resentment against him grew in spite of herself. He was so ill- mannered, so uncouth, so very bumptious and self- satisfied. He sank into his seat with an audible grunt of satisfac- tion, and immediately began to read aloud the captions on the screen. This was a failing of his that Lucille had never been able to cure. As soon as the big white letters were flashed upon the screen, George would begin to mutter them to himself in an uneasy rumble that was just loud enough to annoy the people in front, arouse the curiosity of those behind, and irritate madly those who sat on either side. The film had begun, and as Lucille recognised first one scene and then another her memory carried her back to those wonderful days in the studio two years before. The work had been hard and the pay inade- quate, but she had enjoyed it. The crowd had been so nice to her. She saw them now—close-cropped Dolly Farren, Jacky Helligan of the marvellous eyes, Millicent and Joan—all such spirited, confident, wonderful young people. She had not had their temperament, she re- flected. She had been so much more timid than they, much more old-fashioned. Yet they had been very kind. She was cut short in her reflections by a sudden smothered explosion from George. The scene on the screen had flashed on to a night club in an undergound den in a Spanish-American town. There was a dancing floor in the middle of the room, and at little tables round the walls sat the habitues of the place. Lucille remembered that set particularly—the fetid smell of the paint and sawdust, the glare of the arc lamps and the producer's ceaseless stream of orders. She had played the tiny part of a little girl up from the country who was lured into the place and was now terrified. Yes, there she was at the table by the door. George had seen her, that was why he was snorting, she supposed. The screen slid round to her even as she looked, and she saw a drunken Mexican bandit lounge up towards her and, seating himself at her table, put his arms about her. She saw herself terror-stricken at first, then yield- ing, and finally laying her head upon the red-shirted shoulder and lying there passive. Oh, how she remembered that scene! The rehearsals of it—hundreds of them. The Mexican had been so hard to teach, the producer had been nearly crazy about him. He had been a nice boy, too. Very dark and handsome, with a wonder- fully pleasant voice. His name was Lorraine, she re- membered. Larry Lorraine. They had got on very well together during the filming of that scene. He was nicer than the other film men, more virile and courteous. She fancied that she had heard he had got on well in the profession. She hoped he had. These reminiscences came to an abrupt end as George blundered to his feet. " Come on out," he muttered in a strangely suffocated voice, " I want to talk to you." Lucille gasped at him, and a man behind them whose view George was blocking, said, " Sit down, sir," angrily. " Come on out at once," insisted George, still standing up. There was no help for it therefore, and puzzled and naturally a little annoyed, Lucille hastily gathered up her belongings and followed him out of the theatre. Once outside in the now almost deserted street. Lucille was amazed by the expression on George's face. He was puffy with rage, and his eyes showed dark and very small under his red forehead. " My dear," she said, " what is the matter ? " "Matter?" articulated George with a great effort. " Was this the way to break that sort of news to me after I've trusted you so long? " The girl stared at him in utter bewilderment. " George," she said at last, " what on earth do you mean ? " " Don't take that attitude ! " George caught her arm with a gesture that was oddly theatrical. " Don't take that attitude, I warn you that I'm not the sort of man who can be fooled with." The notion that he had suddenly gone off his head occurred to Lucille, and she turned to him a little frightened. " What do you mean ? " she said wonderingly. don't understand. What news ? Why, showing me the sort of girl you are, said George, striding along the road beside her. " Here have I always treated you as a decent, quiet girl and offered to marry you and all that sort of thing, and then one day you take me into a picture house and show me yourself sitting in a low night club letting a filthy dago make love to you and kiss you. If I'd known you were that type, I'd never have had anything to do with you— never ! " Utter incredulity took Lucille's breath away. " George," she said at last, a little shakily, uncertain if she were going to laugh or not, " you don't really think that ? " George turned his absurdly irate face towards her. It's no good taking that line," he said with an assumption of sophistication that was maddening. " Haven't I seen it with my own eyes ? " But, George," in spite of herself there was laughter in the girl's voice, " that was acting." " How do I know ! " said George obstinately. " Oh, dear, don't be absurd ! " The words broke from the girl involuntarily in her irritation. " Of course it was acting. You don't think all those love scenes you (Continued on page 80.)