He tried to imagine the sensations of Lawrence Barrett or Louis James could they behold Sylvester Montague, whom both these gentlemen had proclaimed to be no mean artist, enacting the role of a bar-room rowdy five days on end by reclining upon a sawdust floor with his back supported by a spirits barrel. The supposititious comments of the two placed upon the motion-picture industry the black guilt of having degraded a sterling artist to the level of a peep-show mountebank. They were frankly disgusted at the spectacle, and their present spokesman thought it as well that they had not actually lived to witness it--even the happier phases of this so-called art in which a mere chit of a girl might earn a living wage by falling downstairs for a so-called star, or the he-doll whippersnapper--Merton Gill flinched in spite of himself--could name his own salary for merely possessing a dimpled chin. Further, an artist in the so-called art received his payment as if he had delivered groceries at one’s back door. “You, I believe--“--The speaker addressed his guest--“are at present upon a pay-roll; but there are others, your elders-possibly your betters, though I do not say that--” “You better not,” remarked his daughter, only to be ignored. “--others who must work a day and at the close of it receive a slip of paper emblazoned ‘Talent Pay Check.’ How more effectively could they cheapen the good word ‘talent’? And at the foot of this slip you are made to sign, before receiving the pittance you have earned, a consent to the public exhibition for the purpose of trade or advertising, of the pictures for which you may have posed. Could tradesmen descend to a lower level, I ask you?” “I’ll have one for twelve fifty to-morrow night,” said Mrs. Montague, not too dismally. “I got to do a duchess at a reception, and I certainly hope my feet don’t hurt me again.” “Cheer up, old dears! Pretty soon you can both pick your parts,” chirped their daughter. “Jeff’s going to give me a contract, and then you can loaf forever for all I care. Only I know you won’t, and you know you won’t. Both of you’d act for nothing if you couldn’t do it for money. What’s the use of pretending?” “The chit may be right, she may be right,” conceded Mr. Montague sadly. Later, while the ladies were again in the kitchen, Mr. Montague, after suggesting, “Something in the nature of an after-dinner cordial,” quaffed one for himself and followed it with the one he had poured out for a declining guest who still treasured the flavour of his one aperitif. He then led the way to the small parlour where he placed in action on the phonograph a record said to contain the ravings of John McCullough in his last hours. He listened to this emotionally.