They were, Lee knew, talking about Mina Raff, a friend of Anette's earlier summers by the sea who was beginning to be highly successful in the more serious moving pictures. He had met her a number of years ago, in Eastlake, but he retained no clear impression of her; and, admitting that he hadn't gone to see her in a picture, wondered aloud at her sudden fame. Peyton Morris glanced at him, frowning; he seemed at the point of vigorous speech, then said nothing. “Mina is lovely now, Lee,” Anette spoke in his place; “you will realize that at once. She's like a--a wistful April moon, or corn silk.” “I like black hair,” Randon asserted. “That's amusing, when you think Fanny's is quite brown,” Anette replied. “Whom have you been meeting with black hair? There's none I can remember in Eastlake.” “There isn't anybody in particular,” Lee reassured her; “it is just an idea of mine.” He had a vision of intense black hair swept about an enigmatic still smile, of an old gilt headdress. “Mina Raff must have developed if she gets half the pay advertised.” “She'll get twice that when this contract expires,” Peyton put in; “and that will be increased again. No one on the screen can touch her.” He made these declarations in a manner both shadowed and aggressive. Lee observed that he held a cigarette in one hand and a match in the other with no effort at conjunction. “Mina simply tells you everything,” Anette continued. “If she comes you must do your best. It's perfectly marvelous, with so much else, that she even considers it. I couldn't budge her when she was practically free.” “How is Claire?” Randon abruptly demanded. “She's all right,” her husband returned; “a little offhand, but no more than usual. I want her to go to the West Indies and take Ira but she won't listen. Why anyone who doesn't have to stay through these rotten winters I can't imagine.” A flaming log brought out his handsomely proportioned face, the clear grey eyes, the light carefully brushed hair and stubborn chin. Peyton was a striking if slightly sullen appearing youth--yet he must be on the mark of thirty--and it was undeniable that he was well thought of generally. At his university, Princeton, he had belonged to a most select club; his family, his prospects, even his present--junior partner in a young but successful firm of bond brokers--were beyond reproach. Yet Lee Randon was aware that he had never completely liked Peyton.