It was puzzling to Merton. He decided at last--he did not like to ask the Montague girl--that Baird had tried the same scene four times, and would choose the best of these for his drama. Brother and sister made further trips to the hotel with their offerings, only the sister now took jams and jellies exclusively, which she sold to the male guests, while the brother took only the improved grape juice which the rich old New Yorker bought and generously paid for. There were other scenes at the hotel between the country boy and the heavy-faced New York society girl, in which the latter was an ardent wooer. Once she was made to snatch a kiss from him as he stood by her, his basket on his arm. He struggled in her embrace, then turned to flee. She was shown looking after him, laughing, carelessly slapping one leg with her riding crop. “You’re still timid,” Baird told him. “You can hardly believe you have won her love.” In some following scenes at the little farmhouse it became impossible for him longer to doubt this, for the girl frankly told her love as she lingered with him at the gate. “She’s one of these new women,” said Baird. “She’s living her own life. You listen--it’s wonderful that this great love should have come to you. Let us see the great joy dawning in your eyes.” He endeavoured to show this. The New York girl became more ardent. She put an arm about him, drew him to her. Slowly, almost in the manner of Harold Parmalee, as it seemed to him, she bent down and imprinted a long kiss upon his lips. He had been somewhat difficult to rehearse in this scene, but Baird made it all plain. He was still the bashful country boy, though now he would be awakened by love. The girl drew him from the gate to her waiting automobile. Here she overcame a last reluctance and induced him to enter. She followed and drove rapidly off. It was only now that Baird let him into the very heart of the drama. “You see,” he told Merton, “you’ve watched these city folks; you’ve wanted city life and fine clothes for yourself; so, in a moment of weakness, you’ve gone up to town with this girl to have a look at the place, and it sort of took hold of you. In fact, you hit up quite a pace for awhile; but at last you go stale on it--” “The blight of Broadway,” suggested Merton, wondering if there could be a cabaret scene. “Exactly,” said Baird. “And you get to thinking of the poor old mother and little sister back here at home, working away to pay off the mortgage, and you decide to come back. You get back on a stormy night; lots of snow and wind; you’re pretty weak. We’ll show you sort of fainting as you reach the door. You have no overcoat nor hat, and your city suit is practically ruined. You got a great chance for some good acting here, especially after you get inside to face the folks. It’ll be the strongest thing you’ve done, so far.”