grunted. He was a wise man, or he would not have been in his present position.
“Keene takes up his contract where he left off,” he returned. “That’s all I’m worrying about! Let Keene run the whole damned place if he wants. If you’d gone into the army, my son, instead of sitting on your draft-proof job, the Lord knows you’d be a damned sight better director!”
The director looked at his leather puttees and said no more.
“Where’s Lola?” asked Reever Keene, driving to the studios in his own car once more, his leading lady and chief supports gathered around him. “Thought she might be around?”
“She’ll turn up at the studios,” was the response. “Working on a location near Santa Monica to-day. They’ll be back for dinner. We’re having a real celebration, old boy!”
“Lola’s awful proud of that sparkler you gave her,” simpered the leading lady. “Heaven knows it was a beaut!”
Reever Keene shivered a little. He was not sure why he shivered; nor was he sure why the warmth and cordiality of his reception at the studio left him cold and hard.
He had not thought it would be this way. He had looked forward to falling right back into the old rut, among the old friends, and he had anticipated swaggering like a good one—all kinds of publicity in it! But, somehow, he found himself landing with a horrible jar. He was damned glad, he reflected, to be done with the bare simplicity of the soldier’s life, with the saluting and uniforms and general prophylaxis; and yet—
Homesickness had glamoured all the old life, but now that he was back in it, the glamour seemed unaccountably like tinsel. The directors, for instance, even his own director and old crony, with their puttees and riding-breeches, general superiority, and bustling business—well, maybe it was the puttees that grated. Keene had saluted leather puttees until he was heartily sick of it; but that was another story altogether.
He wondered inwardly if he had ever been like the men now around him—good fellows, of course, but abominably artificial. These fancy tailored garments, these amber cigarette-holders and sodden cigarettes without a bite, these flashing jewels, and, worst of all, this breezy talk that moved in perpetual high lights—
What the devil was the matter with him, anyhow? Maybe it was because Lola had not come yet.
Well, Lola came, with a stifled shriek and a tiny Peke, and flung herself at him. Good Heaven! Keene had been away from studio paint so long that her appearance frightened him. And had he really picked that engagement ring, that diamond like a walnut? Yes. He remembered hideously the glee with which he had nonchalantly signed that five-thousand-dollar check, and the delight with which he had seen the check pictured in the papers.
“You’ve been away a hell of a long time, old sport!” and his director clapped him on the back. “But now you’re back to the life—the only life, boy!”
“Right you are!” cried Reever Keene, bracing his shoulders. “Let’s have a drink!”
III.
The fact that Reever Keene, home from the army, insisted on working with an abalone blister in his scarf, was an idiosyncrasy good for three-day comment in the press. And the press-agent sighed for the lost opportunities that were closed to him simply by the stubborn deviltry of Keene. Nobody knew what had got into the screen star. He had changed. The abalone pin, for instance, was a sore subject with him.
He never wore any of his former loud attire, and had discarded all his jewelry, which formerly flashed in the cabaret lights of Los. He even wore that abalone pin stuck in the front of his dress shirt, for a society picture; and when the director expostulated, Keene bluntly told him to go to hell—which was no way to treat a famous director.
Then somebody in the scenario department—that is, somebody in the orange-hued flivver class—had an inspiration. He wrote a story about that abalone pin. Keene, according to his contract, had the say about what film stories were to be accepted for his use; and he went into closed session with the scenario department, and there was evolved a scenario which made the director gasp. But the scenario went through; it had to go through, with Keene backing it.
“What’s come over him?” said the president to the director. “He used to get stories written by his friends, turn down everything from the department, make us pay five hundred dollars for the stories—and then split with his friends. That’s the old stall; what’s this new wrinkle?”
“Damned if I know,” groaned the director. “It’s got society stuff in it, and only last week he said he’d never touch society stuff again. And there ain’t any punch, not a bit; it’s one o’ them bleedin’-heart things, and it ain’t got—”
“It’s got Reever Keene in it,” snapped the president, “and that’s enough to put it across anywhere. Do you get me?”
The director departed, weeping.
Worse was to come, however. Reever Keene sold his gorgeous car, and showed up with a plain green-black affair—not even a victoria top to it! Lola refused to ride in the wretched thing, and Keene swore; and the end of this matter was a fine quarrel which the press-agent featured without the least opposition.
And then came the first of the month and the new story.
The story was a society story, right enough. For three days. the company was on location at the Billingkamp residence—you remember, of course, Billingkamp’s Canned Soups—and the exteriors were gorgeous affairs.
The trouble was that Reever Keene had been reading some highbrow stuff, and insisted on wearing his silk hat without any of the rakish tilt which is so fetching to the screen folk; and he insisted on throwing out the beautiful white roadster with red upholstery which the director had provided, and used his own sobersides of a car—and other things like that.
In between times the quarrel with Lola was deftly adjusted, the date was set for the wedding, and duly featured by the press-agent.
After that the company came back to the studio, the remainder of the picture being interior sets—and then the trouble really began. Reever Keene had instructed the property-men about the drawing-room set; the director had done likewise. Props, seeing himself between the devil and the deep sea, provided both sets, and left the principals to scrap it out. Which was wise.
Reever Keene took one look at the director’s set, and ordered it off the stage. The director was inspecting Reever Keene’s set, and Keene met him in the act.
“My Lord!” said the director. “I don’t know anything about motion-pictures; I’m just a poor simp who’s spent all his life in the game. Look—for the love of Heaven, look!”
“Get down to cases, you,” growled Keene. “Never mind the high-art stuff, now. Just be sensible and tell me what’s wrong!
The director swallowed hard and waved his hand at the set. It had been assembled with a good deal of trouble. There was an imitation Rubens; there was a real set of imitation armor that looked from the camera considerably like fifteenth century. The rest was deeply rich velvet and hangings.
“As man to, man,” said the director, “I’ll put it to you, Keene. How do you think this dark stuff is going to take? All to the bad! It can’t be done, man! You’ve got to have contrast. Now, can’t you realize that this picture has got to show a society home? A real swell home. None of your junk, but stuff
