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mortal through. There were whispers and soft voices and,
apparently from afar, the gentle tremolo of a small organ.
Turning the corner made by some flats, they came upon the
white crackling glow of a stage, where a French actor—his
shirt front, collar, and cuffs tinted a brilliant pink—and an
American actress stood motionless face to face. They stared
at each other with dogged eyes, as though they had been in
the same position for hours; and still for a long time noth-
ing happened, no one moved. A bank of lights went off with
a savage hiss, went on again; the plaintive tap of a hammer
begged admission to nowhere in the distance; a blue face ap-
peared among the blinding lights above, called something
unintelligible into the upper blackness. Then the silence was
broken by a voice in front of Rosemary.
‘Baby, you don’t take off the stockings, you can spoil ten
more pairs. That dress is fifteen pounds.’
Stepping backward the speaker ran against Rosemary,
whereupon the studio manager said, ‘Hey, Earl—Miss
Hoyt.’
They were meeting for the first time. Brady was quick
and strenuous. As he took her hand she saw him look her
over from head to foot, a gesture she recognized and that
made her feel at home, but gave her always a faint feeling of
superiority to whoever made it. If her person was property
she could exercise whatever advantage was inherent in its
ownership.
‘I thought you’d be along any day now,’ Brady said, in a
voice that was just a little too compelling for private life, and
that trailed with it a faintly defiant cockney accent. ‘Have a

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