“That’s the sort of technique,” he said, “that the so--called silver screen has made but a memory.” He lighted his pipe, and identified various framed photographs that enlivened the walls of the little room. Many of them were of himself at an earlier age. “My dear mother-in-law,” he said, pointing to another. “A sterling artist, and in her time an ornament of the speaking stage. I was on tour when her last days came. She idolized me, and passed away with my name on her lips. Her last request was that a photograph of me should be placed in her casket before it went to its final resting place.” He paused, his emotion threatening to overcome him. Presently he brushed a hand across his eyes and continued, “I discovered later that they had picked out the most wretched of all my photographs--an atrocious thing I had supposed was destroyed. Can you imagine it?” Apparently it was but the entrance of his daughter that saved him from an affecting collapse. His daughter removed the record of John McCullough’s ravings, sniffed at it, and put a fox-trot in its place. “He’s got to learn to dance,” she explained, laying hands upon the guest. “Dancing--dancing!” murmured Mr. Montague, as if the very word recalled bitter memories. With brimming eyes he sat beating time to the fox-trot measure while Merton Gill proved to all observers that his mastery of this dance would, if ever at all achieved, be only after long and discouraging effort. “You forget all about your feet,” remarked the girl as they paused, swaying to the rhythm. “Remember the feet--they’re important in a dance. Now!--” But it was hard to remember his feet or, when he did recall them, to relate their movements even distantly to the music. When this had died despairingly, the girl surveyed her pupil with friendly but doubting eyes. “Say, Pa, don’t he remind you of someone? Remember the squirrel that joined out with us one time in the rep show and left ‘East Lynne’ flat right in the middle of the third act while he went down and announced the next night’s play--the one that his name was Eddie Duffy and he called himself Clyde Maltravers?” “In a way, in a way,” agreed Mr. Montague dismally. “A certain lack of finish in the manner, perhaps.” “Remember how Charlie Dickman, the manager, nearly murdered him for it in the wings? Not that Charlie didn’t have a right to. Well, this boy dances like Eddie Duffy would have danced.”