MR. HERMAN WINKLE, the eminent producer of film masterpieces, sat in his office staring at the director he had but recently lured away from a rival concern. California's special brand of early morning sunshine poured through a window at Mr. Winkle's back, bathing in golden splendor his vast expanse of bald head.
"Well, Kenyon," he inquired, "did you go over that new script for Malone?"
"I did," said the director. "It looks like an A-1 story to me."
"Yeah, it's a good piece of property," replied Mr. Winkle, making use of his favorite phrase.
The director smiled.
"Now that shot where Malone appears on the fire escape in her nightgown——"
"Wasn't in the property when I bought it," Mr. Winkle informed him. "I wrote it in." He paused a moment, his chest swelling with the pride of authorship. "Well, I guess you're ready to begin shooting as soon as Malone shows up. I hope you two get along O. K."
"Oh, we'll hit it off," smiled Kenyon. "I understand that Peggy Malone is a regular fellow."
"She's a mighty fine kid," said Mr. Winkle. "Five years we been working together, and never a word between us that wasn't as pleasant as a good week's gross. Yes, sir, five years ago I found her in the Follies chorus, getting her measly little fifty a week. Just for an evening of pleasure I go to the theater, and the minute this girl walks on I know I'm there for business. Right away I went back stage and signed her up. It was one of my big strokes."
"One of many," flattered Kenyon.
"Yeah, you said it," Mr. Winkle admitted. "Well, get busy. All I got to say is, treat her right. I never knew her to be peevish yet, but I ain't taking no chances. I wouldn't lose her for Rockefeller's millions. She's the best bit of property I got." He rose and waved an emphatic finger at his new director. "Believe me when I say it, she's the best bit of property in the films."
Up at the other end of Hollywood, in a boudoir done, to quote Peggy herself, "in a Los Angeles imitation of Louis the Quince," the film star sat before her dressing-table. She was running a tortoise-shell comb through her hair, which she wore bobbed that season. On top it was a tangled glory of gold, but it stopped abruptly just below her ears, as though it would think twice before concealing those charming shoulders.
In the mirror Peggy Malone could see, at her back, the trim figure of her maid moving silently about the room, straightening it up. She found the sight of so much calm efficiency, so early in the morning, rather wearing. Again she lowered her eyes, under the famous long lashes, to her dressing-table, where amid the toilet things lay an opened letter. At sight of the letter Peggy smiled.
"Good old Nell!" she said.
"Beg pardon, miss?" said the maid.
"It's a letter from an old pal of mine," explained Peggy Malone. "A girl I used to know in the Follies—Nell Morrison. She went over to London, and turned out a riot. She's all pep, all ginger, Nell is. And the English are so taken with that sort of thing, poor dears, having so little themselves!"
"Yes, miss," said the maid stiffly. She was English and proud of it.
Peggy yawned.
"To hear Nell tell it, she's grabbed off a duke. She wants me to come over and go shopping. Says the titles are all lined up on the shelves, and you just go in and serve yourself—like a cafeteria."
[ Illustration: To Hear Nell Tell it, She's Grabbed Off a Duke. She Wants Me to Come Over and Go Shopping. Says the Titles are All Lined Up on the Shelves, and You Just Go In and Serve Yourself—Like a Cafeteria." ]
"Why don't you go, miss? The rest would do you good."
"If I only could!" sighed Peggy, and smiled again—that twisted, wistful little smile that held her public enthralled.
She could do with a rest, she told herself. She was rather tired. She lowered her hand with the comb to the edge of the table and yawned again. This getting up at eight in the morning was no joke. Not like the old days in the chorus, days that began when the noon whistles were blowing. Happy days; not much money, but excitement—thrills. Sometimes she wished——