“Ever been in a studio before?”
“Never have.”
She liked it. There was no heavy closeness of
greasepaint, no scent of soiled and tawdry costumes
which years before had revolted her behind the scenes
of a musical comedy. This work was done in the
clean mornings; the appurtenances seemed rich and
gorgeous and new. On a set that was joyous with
Manchu hangings a perfect Chinaman was going through
a scene according to megaphone directions as the great
glittering machine ground out its ancient moral tale
for the edification of the national mind.
A red-headed man approached them and spoke with familiar
deference to Bloeckman, who answered:
“Hello, Debris. Want you to meet Mrs. Patch....
Mrs. Patch wants to go into pictures, as I explained
to you.... All right, now, where do we go?”
Mr. Debris—the great Percy B. Debris, thought
Gloria—showed them to a set which represented
the interior of an office. Some chairs were drawn
up around the camera, which stood in front of it, and
the three of them sat down.
“Ever been in a studio before?” asked
Mr. Debris, giving her a glance that was surely the
quintessence of keenness. “No? Well,
I’ll explain exactly what’s going to happen.
We’re going to take what we call a test in order
to see how your features photograph and whether you’ve
got natural stage presence and how you respond to
coaching. There’s no need to be nervous
over it. I’ll just have the camera-man take
a few hundred feet in an episode I’ve got marked
here in the scenario. We can tell pretty much
what we want to from that.”
He produced a typewritten continuity and explained
to her the episode she was to enact. It developed
that one Barbara Wainwright had been secretly married
to the junior partner of the firm whose office was
there represented. Entering the deserted office
one day by accident she was naturally interested in
seeing where her husband worked. The telephone
rang and after some hesitation she answered it.
She learned that her husband had been struck by an
automobile and instantly killed. She was overcome.
At first she was unable to realize the truth, but
finally she succeeded in comprehending it, and went
into a dead faint on the floor.
“Now that’s all we want,” concluded
Mr. Debris. “I’m going to stand here
and tell you approximately what to do, and you’re
to act as though I wasn’t here, and just go
on do it your own way. You needn’t be afraid
we’re going to judge this too severely.
We simply want to get a general idea of your screen
personality.”
“I see.”
“You’ll find make-up in the room in back
of the set. Go light on it. Very little
red.”
“I see,” repeated Gloria, nodding.
She touched her lips nervously with the tip of her
tongue.
As she came into the set through the real wooden door
and closed it carefully behind her, she found herself
inconveniently dissatisfied with her clothes.
She should have bought a “misses’”
dress for the occasion—she could still
wear them, and it might have been a good investment
if it had accentuated her airy youth.
