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28 Y«, Mr. DeMille In an hour or so, he opened the letter slowly and began to read midway in the text: "These are a few of the many dazzling facets among the gems of your accomplishments-reverberating throughout time and destiny, the rectitude of your stand for justice and the true prin- ciples of Americanism during a period when much of the time you walked the pioneer's trail of solitude. The beacons you have lifted for all to see are no less significant than those hung in the Old North Church by Paul Revere, the immortal words on the walls of Belshazzar's Court, or the magnesium-glow flame of in a mind divinely illuminated." He looked at us, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I will not ask for comments but those who wish to express an opinion are free to do so." Not a word from anyone. In a matter as ticklish as this, a mere suggestion of a smile was at least heretical, if not openly defiant. This was one of those rarest of moments—the boss re- fusing to take an accolade seriously. "I don't seem to find any sympathy here/' he said, pocketing the letter with mock resig- nation. Mr. DeMille's memory was poor in later years, at times driving him to almost indecipherable commands. Once he pointed exasperatingly at an actress standing a short distance away. "That girl over there, what's her name?" It was his daughter Catherine. His top secretaries, Misses Cole, Mosk and Rosson, wrestled with such references as "What was that man's name who came here with his little girl four years ago?" or "Remind me to put that thing back in the other scene before we get too far along/' When they became even more vague, a daily log was kept, starting in 1944, of every telephone call from an outside source, along with a notation as to whether it was put through to DeMille, and, if possible, the gist of the conversation. It pro- vided ready replies for queries like "When did I speak to Louie