“No interior ever made a picture,” agreed Annan, “and no exterior ever saved one. But I’d go as far as I liked on the scenery that you don’t have to pay God for.” Miss Blythe laughed: “Are you going to do a story for me, Barry?” she asked. “You promised--when you were in love with me.” “I am yet. But your people don’t like sob-stuff any better than does Rosalind’s audience.” “You don’t have to squirt tears into every story you write,” retorted Betsy. “Did you ever see me cry? There are people, Barry, who manage to get on without snivelling every minute.” “I never cry,” remarked Rosalind; “Mom spanked the last tear out of me years ago.” She rose and moved indolently to the piano. Few professional pianists were better at her age,--thanks to “Mom,” who had been a celebrated one. Rosalind talked and idled at the keys, played, chattered, sang enchantingly, killed loveliness with a jest, slew beauty to light a cigarette, cursed with caprice the charming theme developing or, capriciously and tenderly protected, nourished and cared for it until it grew to exquisitive maturity. Then strangled it with a “rag.” “You little devil,” said Betsy, tremulous under the spell--“I wouldn’t strangle my own offspring as you do!--I _couldn’t_----” Emotion checked her. Rosalind laughed: “It doesn’t matter when one can have all the offspring one wants.... You’ll never get on if you’re too serious, Bettina mia.” “That’s your friend Barry talking, not _you_,” retorted Betsy. “_He_ can get away with it--sitting all alone in a stuffy room where his readers can’t see him writing sob-stuff with his tongue in his cheek. But you and I had better wear faces that can be safely watched, my Rosalinda child!” “I want to ask you,” said Rosalind, turning to Annan, “whether an audience can surmise what sort of private life one leads merely from watching one on the stage or screen.” “I think so, in a measure,” he replied. “Then it does pay to behave,” concluded Betsy, walking to a mirror to inspect herself. “Not guilty--so far,” she added, powdering her nose; “--am I, Barry?” “Old Jule Cæsar’s wife was a schmeer in comparison,” he agreed. “I’ll tell you, young man,” she remarked, “I’ve found the Broadway atmosphere healthier than it is in some New York younger sets.” “Is that one answer to why do young men haunt stage doors?” inquired Coltfoot. “You miserable cynic,” retorted Betsy, “the sort of young man who does that belongs in the sets I mentioned.” “Anyway,” added Rosalind, with lazy humour, “you and Barry are spending a perfectly good evening as close to the stage as you can get. Why?” “Why,” added Betsy, “do men prefer women of the stage?” “Good God,” said Coltfoot, “take any Sunday supplement and compare the faces of Newport and Broadway. That’s one reason out of hundreds.”