and passed and repassed the parlor door, open-mouthed with wonder.
The approval shown the instrumental duet was scant indeed, due, Mr. Renault suggested, to professional jealousy.
“The next number on our very generous program,” he announced, “will follow immediately. It’s called Let’s Talk about My Sweetie Now. On your mark—Eddie.”
“Nothing doing,” cried the girl known as Diane. “I haven’t had my Charleston lesson today, and it’s getting late. Eddie—kindly oblige.”
Eddie obliged. In another moment every one save the two old people in the corner had leaped into action. The framed, autographed portraits that other film celebrities had bestowed on the proprietor of the Desert Edge rattled on the walls. The windows shook. Suddenly in the doorway appeared a bald man with a gloomy eye.
“Good lord,” he shouted. “How do you expect me to get my rest?”
“Hello, Mike,” said Rannie. “What is it you want to rest from?”
“You direct a gang like this for a while, and you’ll know,” replied Mike sourly. “It’s ten o’clock. If you’ll take my advice for once, you’ll turn in. Everybody’s to report in costume, here in the lobby tomorrow morning at eight-thirty.”
This news was greeted with a chorus of low moans. “Nine-thirty, you say?” Rannie inquired.
“Eight-thirty. You heard me. And anybody who’s late pays a good stiff fine. Now please go to bed and let decent people sleep.”
“Decent people?” repeated Rannie softly, as the director
