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SuADOWLAND
Told in Story Form from the Goldwyn-Tom Moore Photoplay
By Ann Paul
JAMES BOINTON BLAKE, looking about him, didn't know precisely how to take it all. The chintz curtains, darned, immaculate. The scent of lavender. The carved four-poster bed with the snowy spread. The rag carpets. The bowl with wild arbutus trailing slim fingers over its bevelled edges. He didn't know just whether to laugh or to cry, to scoff or to pray. It was all so different. Five years ago James Bointon Blake had written a great novel. Xot with the fringes of his mind, but with the stuff of which he was made, with his hopes and his faiths and his most shining beliefs. Tears had gone into it, the tears of little boyhood, sobby and terribly real; the tears of manhood, stern and grim. Laughter, too. It had been a great book. And because it was truly great it lived and the world that knew placed laurel about his brow and proclaimed him and lionized him.
It had an odd effect on James Bointon Blake. It didn't give him conceit. It gave him slothf ulness.
He difted to Greenwich A ulage. There he found an adulation that swamped him in green, in sickly-sweet waters. Xot many persons in the Village, he discovered, had done anything. They were always just going to. There were dreams afloat and mirages and vague halluci
TOBY'S BOW
Told in story form from the scenario based upon lohn Taintor Foote's play. Produced by Goldwyn, starring Tom Moore. Directed by Harry Beaumont. The cast:
lirnmie Blake Tom Moore
Eugenia Doris Pawn
DuBois Macey Harlam
Bagby Arthur Housman
Bainbridge Colin Kenny
Paige Augustus Phillips
Valerie Catherine Wallace
Mona Violet Schram
Grandmother Ruby La Favette
.Tap valet George K. Kinva
Toby Xick Cogley
nations of perpetually receding Tomorrows. There was an endless chain of that sort of thing. Jimmie found himself to be something of a departure.
At first it amused him, bemused him. He was tired and the laxity of it all soothed him and lulled him. He had poured fourth the very best in him and, likeashell, hewanted to lie fallow and to be filled by other tides, other murmurings. Five years slipped by him, over him. Five soft-shod years. They immersed him, as it were, muffled him, obliterated him. At the end of them he lived in an odd sort of an apartment with Yama, his Jap, and drank vast quantities of high balls and played long nights thru, stripped poker with four of his mere intimate confederates. Fie didn't very much care what he did do, so long as he was permitted to do nothing, was undisturbed by
echoes of a world beyond the Milage and the Village standards, and could dream ... of all things ... of everything . . . and nothing . . .
As he didn't work so, neither, did he love. He was much too lazv for either one. He didn't consider himself ''ruined'' because he didn't consider himself at all. The Milage, something like a huge semi-clean comfortable, had settled down about him and he drifted about in a
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