If Arthur Weldon felt any chagrin at this, discovery it was not in the least shared by the others of his party.  Beth was admiring the young girl’s grace and dignity; Patsy was delighted by her loveliness in the fleecy, picturesque costume she wore; Louise felt pride in the fact that she had been introduced to “a real actress,” while Uncle John wondered what adverse fortune had driven this beautiful, refined girl to pose before a motion picture camera.

They soon discovered Florence Stanton in the picture, too, among the dancing girls; so there could be no mistake of identity.  Mrs. Montrose was not visible during the performance; but afterward, when Samson had pulled down the pillars of the temple and it had fallen in ruins, when the “show” was over and the actors trooping away to their dressing-rooms, then the visitors were ushered into the main office of the establishment to meet Mr. Goldstein, the manager, and seated by the window was the aunt of the two girls, placidly reading a book.  She looked up with a smile as they entered.

“Did you see the play?” she asked.  “And isn’t it grand and impressive?  I hope you liked Maud’s ‘Delilah.’  The poor child has worked so hard to create the character.”

They assured her the girl was perfect in her part, after which Mr. Merrick added:  “I’m astonished you did not go out to see the play yourself.”

She laughed at his earnestness.

“It’s an old story to me,” she replied, “for I have watched Maud rehearse her part many times.  Also it is probable that some—­if not all—­of the scenes of ‘Samson and Delilah’ will be taken over and over, half a dozen times, before the director is satisfied.”

“The performance seemed quite perfect to-day,” said Uncle John.  “I suppose, Mrs. Montrose, you do not—­er—­er—­act, yourself?”

“Oh.  I have helped out, sometimes, when a matronly personation is required, but my regular duties keep me busily engaged in the office.”

“May we ask what those duties are?” said Louise.

“I’m the reader of scenarios.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Patsy.  “I’m sure we don’t know any more than we did before.”

“A ‘scenario,’” said the lady, “is a description of the plot for a photo-play.  It is in manuscript form and hundreds of scenarios are submitted to us from every part of the country, and by people in all walks of life.”

“I shouldn’t think you could use so many,” said Beth.

“We can’t, my dear,” responded the lady, laughing at her simplicity.  “The majority of the scenarios we receive haven’t a single idea that is worth considering.  In most of the others the ideas are stolen, or duplicated from some other picture-play.  Once in a while, however, we find a plot of real merit, and then we accept it and pay the author for it.”

“How much?” inquired Arthur.

“So little that I am ashamed to tell you.  Ideas are the foundation of our business, and without them we could not make successful films; but when Mr. Goldstein buys an idea he pays as little for it as possible, and the poor author usually accepts the pittance with gratitude.”