“It’s the movie girls and not Parisian professional models nor New York society women who make the fashions for America,” says Betty. Which, when you come to think about it, is a terrible slam for Mrs. Hoyt—an intimation that she is not considered a regular movie queen, in spite of the fact that she shook the pink teas of the Four Hundred for a part in Norma Talmadge’s company, and is now about to burst into the world of art with a company of her own. The truth is, New York society women have apparently gone dippy over getting into the movies. The other day I was out at the Griffith studio at Marmaroneck watching a starving mob in rags crying for bread in the streets of ancient Paris. Among the actors there was one who stood out. She was a shriveled old woman with thin hands and haggard eyes. Her clothes were torn half off, showing her shrunken breasts and bony shoulders. When “D. W.” gave the signal for the action to begin, she fairly made you feel the agony of her hunger. When there came, at last, an interval in the work, she beckoned to a maid who stood near the set. “Go out to the yacht and get me my cigarette case,” she said. It turned out that the old lady was a very rich woman with a garage filled with imported automobiles and a steam yacht. She just had the “itch” to act in the movies. It’s a little secret that is giggled up and down Fifth avenue that one of the “extra girls” in the ball room scene in “Way Down East” was Evelyn Walsh, who is considered to be the richest unmarried woman in the world. Mrs. Morgan Belmont was also in the same picture. Perhaps it was the movies that did it; but anyhow, times have changed in the old Four Hundred in New York. It is only the Texas oil millionairesses who continue to elevate the haughty nose in mid-air and give you a far-away stare. Mrs. Belmont, when I saw her in a picture studio, was sitting on the edge of a piece of scenery, smoking a cigarette that she had borrowed from a stage hand. She was excitedly debating an exciting question. She was contending that Jack Dempsey could have licked Jack Johnson when the big dinge was at his very best. It happened that I sat in a business conference with Anne Morgan the other day. She was the most simple and democratic person present. She sat still and listened until every one else had expressed his opinion. Finally she threw away the butt of her cigarette and said abruptly, “Look here. We are all talking around in circles and getting nowhere.” Then she stated the case with the directness and clarity of a corporation lawyer. “You know,” she said in explanation, “My father was a banker.” I wonder if she thought she was telling anybody any news! J. Pierpont Morgan was the said father. Mrs. Morgan Belmont isn’t likely to squeeze Mary Pickford out of her job. She was just in pictures on account of her name. In the case of Mrs. Lydig Hoyt, however, it is different. She is really a marvelously beautiful woman and may go far in the cinema.