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"Mr. DeMille," the words fairly exploded. "You are no gentlemen to keep a lady waiting ! You don't even stand when she enters the room."
He looked up surprised. "I'm busy, Miss Murray."
"Mr. Ziegfeld is busy too, but he doesn't keep me waiting and he stands when I make my entrance. Mr. Ziegfeld treats us like queens!"
He laughed. "That's New York. This is Hollywood."
"And I don't like it. I wish I'd never come."
"What an obstreperous youngster! Melfords tells me you're hard to handle and I believe it. Do you realize, last night you deliberately destroyed property belonging to this studio?"
Her look was blank.
"Those pictures you tore."
"They weren't any good and they were my pictures."
"But our property. We have the negatives, Miss Murray, we can make as many prints as we wish."
She stomped her foot. "I want to go home. Please, send me home."
Cecil B. DeMille rose and walked around in front of his desk. At thirty-five he'd found his stride and had a keen eye. In the plays he'd written with his brother William and in his first films, he liked to cut back from the past to the present. If he had been doing this scene, he would have cut back to Viola in Twelfth Night. As he stood there in his breeches and riding boots, shoulders slack, hands thrust in his pockets, the brown eyes under the bald dome of his head were suddenly very kind.
"Maybe you'd like to tell me why you feel so strongly about those stills."
She took a deep breath. "I've been squashed. Those pictures aren't me, they're nothing. Mr. Melford thinks I'm just a dancer, he jerks me about like a puppet, shooting guns and yelling at me. I hate this heavy downbeat character, I hate his shouting, and the picture's going to be dreadful! No one stood over me yelling in the Follies, I was free to do what I liked.
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