They lunched among the film players, grotesque in make-up and odd costumes. “No postman before,” said Chan, over his chicken pie, “ever encountered such interesting walk on his holiday. Pardon, please, if I eat with unashamed enjoyment and too much gusto. New experience for me to encounter food I have not perspired over myself in person.”
“They’re taking a picture on Stage Twelve,” the girl explained when lunch was finished. “It’s against the rules, but if you’re not too boisterous I can get you in for a look.”
They passed out of the dazzling sunshine into the dim interior of a great building that looked like a warehouse. Another moment, and they reached the set, built to represent a smart foreign restaurant. Rich hangings were in the background, beautiful carpets on the floor. Along the walls were many tables with pink-shaded lights, and a resplendent head-waiter stood haughtily at the entrance.
The sequence being shot at the moment involved, evidently, the use of many extras, and a huge crowd stood about, waiting patiently. The faces of most of them were vital and alive, unforgettable. Here were people who had known life—and not too much happiness—in many odd corners of the world. Nearly all the men were in uniform—a war picture, no doubt. Bob Eden heard snatches of French, German, Spanish; he saw in the eyes about him a hundred stories more real and tragic than any these people would ever act on the silver screen.
“Leading men and women are standardized, more or less,” said Paula Wendell, “but the extras—they’re different. If you talked with some of them, you’d be amazed. Brains and refinement—remarkable pasts—and on the bargain counter now at five dollars a day.”
