“She ain’t a bit like them other authoreens we’ve had around here,” one of the manual assistants is reported to have grieved. “They’ll go off and leave you alone. But she--sure an’ it’s twelve times this day she’s had me move that one bloody bureau in the set and still she ain’t satisfied.” I have quoted Mrs. Glyn’s remark anent the “beautiful young man” in whose behalf she had made such unavailing efforts with the Famous Players-Lasky Company. From all I have heard this story represented with her a habitual type of altruism. I am told that every now and then while she was working in the studio she would approach some good-looking chap whom perhaps she had never seen before. “My dear boy,” she was likely to address him, “you’re really very charming, you know. Now I want you to take the leading part in my new story.” “Thank you, Mrs. Glyn,” the other would falter, “but you see So-and-So is already cast for that part.” “Oh, what a shame!” would rejoin the author. “But surely you’ll take the second part--in _my_ play?” Torn between pleasure at this avidity of interest and the pang inflicted upon any handsome actor by the supposition that he could possibly appear in a secondary rôle, the Adonis of the hour would then probably retreat to some lonely grotto where he could meditate upon the embarrassment of great beauty. In one of the most amazing encounters of beauty and the author, the late Wallace Reid was cast for the leading part. Friends of Reid report that one day while he was coming off the set he was hailed by Mrs. Glyn. “My dear boy”--thus she is said to have greeted him--“you’re really very wonderful to look at. And, besides, you know you have--It.” “It?” Reid murmured confusedly, wondering perhaps what his press-agents and admirers could possible have overlooked. “What do you mean, Mrs. Glyn?” “Oh, that is my word. It!” she repeated in that contralto voice which soughs through Mrs. Glyn like the lonely wind through the pine-trees. “Don’t you see, that one syllable expresses everything--all the difference there is between people. You either have It or you haven’t.” Reid was still considering himself in this new light of special privilege when he noticed that the writer’s brows were puckered. “Yes,” he heard her reflect after a moment of such pained scrutiny, “you have It--but, ah, my dear boy--your boots and your hair! If I could only send you to my London bootmaker and have some one wise cut your hair!”