"No, madam, I could hardly go so far as to say that--hardly so far as to say that exactly. My good friend, Mr. Basil Derby, has the title rôle. He originated the part on Broadway--perhaps that explains it. I play the American newspaper correspondent--a strong part, yet with touches of pure comedy interspersed in it here and there--a part second only to that of the star." "Does he--this Mr. Derby--does he get anything like what you are paid?" ventured Mr. Pilkins. Surely the Ziegler Company tempted bankruptcy. "I suspect so, sir, I suspect so." Mr. Harcourt's tone indicated subtly that this world was as yet by no means free from injustice. Before the meal was anywhere near ended--in fact, before they reached the orange sorbet, coming between the roast beef _au jus_ and the choice of young chicken with giblet sauce or cold sliced lamb with pickled beets--the Pilkinses knew a great deal about Mr. Royal Harcourt, and Mr. Royal Harcourt knew the Pilkinses were good listeners, and not only good listeners but believing ones as well. So a pleasant hour passed speedily for all three. There, was an especially pleasant moment just at the close of the dinner when Mr. Harcourt invited them to accompany him at ten o'clock on the following morning to the Ziegler studios, and as his guest to witness the lensing of certain episodes destined to figure in the completed film drama of The Prince of the Desert. Speaking for both, Mrs. Pilkins accepted. "But, Gertrude Maud," murmured Mr. Pilkins doubtfully as the two of them were leaving the dining-room to hear the orchestra play in the arched inner garden where the poinsettia waved its fiery bannerets aloft, reminding one somewhat of the wagging red oriflamme of a kindred member of the same family--the Irish setter--and the inevitable spoiled childling of every tourist hotel romped to and fro, whining for pure joy, making life a curse for its parents and awakening in the hearts of others reconciling thoughts touching upon the late King Herod, the bald-headed prophet who called the bears down out of the hills, and the style of human sacrifices held to be most agreeable to the tastes of the heathenish god Moloch. "But, Gertrude Maud," he repeated demurringly as he trailed a pace behind her, seeing she had not heard or seemed not to have heard. In her course Mrs. Pilkins halted so suddenly that a double-stranded necklet of small wooden darning eggs of graduated sizes clinked together smartly. "Chester," she stated sharply, "don't keep bleating out 'Gertrude Maud' like that. It annoys me. If you have anything to say, quit mumbling and say it." "But, Ger--but, my dear," he corrected himself plaintively, "we were going to visit the orange groves to-morrow morning. I have already spoken to the automobile man----"