its youth in pleasant company. Bob Eden met the movies in their hours of ease, childlike, happy people, seemingly without a care in the world. A very pretty girl gave him a hand which recalled his father’s jewelry shop, and then restored it to the ukulele she was playing. A tall young man designated as Rannie, whose clothes were perfection and whose collar and shirt shamed the blue of California’s sky, desisted briefly from his torture of a saxophone.
“Hello, old-timer,” he remarked. “I hope you brought your harp.” And instantly ran amuck on the saxophone again.
A middle-aged actor with a bronzed, rather hard face was officiating at the piano. In a far corner a grand dame and an old man with snow-white hair sat apart from the crowd, and Eden dropped down beside them.
“What was the name?” asked the old man, his hand behind his ear. “Ah, yes, I’m glad to meet any friend of Paula’s. We’re a little clamorous here tonight, Mr. Eden. It’s like the early days when I was trouping—how we used to skylark on station platforms! We were happy then—no movies. Eh, my dear?” he added to the woman.
She bent a bit. “Yes—but I never trouped much. Thank heaven I was usually able to steer clear of those terrible towns where Main Street is upstairs. Mr. Belasco rarely asked me to leave New York.” She turned to Eden. “I was in Belasco companies fifteen years,” she explained.
“Wonderful experience, no doubt,” the boy replied.
“Greatest school in the world,” she said. “Mr. Belasco thought very highly of my work. I remember once at a dress rehearsal he told me he could never have put on the piece without
