"Yes," he admitted, "I have, but I could not picture you in any employment I could think of. It was impossible to think of you as a stenographer or a school teacher or a nurse or a shop girl." "All because you met me at a lawn fete--a society affair," she concluded. "No. All because--well, all because you are you." Was that a glint of pleasure he saw for the briefest fraction of a second in her eyes? "I asked you to come out here this afternoon because I knew that you would find it out some day, probably tomorrow or the next day, or next week, and I wanted you to know that I had not tried to keep it from you," she said. "I want you to know, too, from me, why it is I'm here." She paused and he waited for her to continue. "I entered picture work because--well, frankly, we--that is, father, mother and I--are alone in the world and poor," she said. "Really, honestly poor. The last that we could afford to spend from the little we have left was spent on my education. Father insisted. "Once, and it was not so many years ago, our family was wealthy like other California families that received land grants. But father--the dear that he is--like so many of his friends, thought little of business or the future and slowly our land was sold until now only a few acres of what we once had remain--only the few acres of the home you visited. "Of course, I was fortunate. My family name gave me entrance anywhere and still does, although there are those who think I have desecrated that name and who feel that because we are in reduced circumstances we have simply ceased to be. "So when I was old enough to realize exactly what conditions were and what we faced I was determined to do something. It was a friend who was kind enough to believe and tell me that I had talent for acting who first interested me in motion picture work. And, not to tire you with long, boresome details, I was lucky. Somehow it was not difficult and I am now receiving enough to keep us comfortable without encroaching, as I said, on what little father has left. "There, you have my story," she concluded, settling back in her chair. "And the work, do you like it?" he asked. "I do like it," she replied. "And, besides, what else could I do? You have said yourself that I could never be a stenographer, a school teacher or a nurse or a shop girl." "You could be anything," he hastened to explain, "from a shop girl to a--to a--a queen." "That's better," she concurred, smiling. "Those tears you shed back there before the camera, who were they for?"