“If you are going to speak of money, please don’t,” he said firmly. “I am interested in cinematography; in fact, I am interested in most modern things. We old men are usually prone to decry modernity, but I find my chiefest pleasure in the study of those scientific wonders which this new age has revealed to us.” He looked at the director quizzically. “Some day you shall take a picture of me in the one rôle in which I think I should have no peer—a picture of me in the rôle of my illustrious ancestor.” Jack Knebworth stared, half amused, half startled. It was no unusual experience to find people who wished to see themselves on the screen, but he never expected that little piece of vanity from Mr. Sampson Longvale. “I should be glad,” he said formally. “Your people were pretty well known, I guess?” Mr. Longvale sighed. “It is my regret that I do not come from the direct line that included Charles Henry, the most historic member of my family. He was my great-uncle. I come from the Bordeaux branch of Longvales, which has made history, sir.” He shook his head regretfully. “Are you French, Mr. Longvale?” asked Jack. Apparently the old man did not hear him. He was staring into space. Then, with a start: “Yes, yes, we were French. My great-grandfather married an English lady whom he met in peculiar circumstances. We came to England in the days of the directorate.” Then, for the first time, he seemed aware of Adele’s presence, and bowed toward her. “I think I must go,” he said, taking a huge gold watch from his fob pocket. The girl watched them as they passed out of the hall, and presently she saw the “old-fashioned gentleman” pass the window, driving the oldest-fashioned car she had ever seen. It must have been one of the first motor-cars ever introduced into the country, a great, upstanding, cumbersome machine, that passed with a thunderous sound and at no great speed down the gravel drive out of sight. Presently Jack Knebworth came slowly back. “This craze for being screened certainly gets ’em—old or young,” he said. “Good night, Miss—forget your name—Leamington, ain’t it? Good night.” She was half-way home before she realized that the conversation that she had plucked up such courage to initiate had ended unsatisfactorily for her, and she was as far away from her small part as ever. CHAPTER III THE NIECE ADELE LEAMINGTON occupied a small room in a small house, and there were moments when she wished it were smaller, that she might be justified in plucking up her courage to ask from the stout and unbending Mrs. Watson, her landlady, a reduction of rent. The extras on Jack Knebworth’s lot were well paid but infrequently employed; for Jack was one of those clever directors who specialized in domestic stories. She was dressing when Mrs. Watson brought in her morning cup of tea.