“It was that dance of hers. That’s what took me! At the church sociable, colonel. Believe me, I was never so thrilled in my life. I was doin’ the town, looking for a place”--Mr. Bernstein waved his hand with a melancholy air--“for this place, sir. Well, I was goin’ down Main Street, an’ I see them headlights. ‘Something doing here,’ thinks I, ‘an’ I’ll have a look.’ Didn’t expect anything; but somehow I went in, an’ the very first thing I see is that dance. Gee whiz! I says to myself: ‘Sammy Bernstein, this is your lucky day; this is a find!’” Colonel Denbigh laid down the stump of his cigar and pulled his mustache. “I suppose you’ve asked her?” “I did. And I’ll say right now that I don’t think--what’s his name?--Mr. William Henry Carter’s got any horse-sense. He took on as if I’d insulted him when I was offerin’ his wife five hundred dollars a week. That’s what I offered, Colonel Denbigh--five hundred dollars a week, good money.” The colonel looked reflective. “I’m afraid we’re behind the times down here, Mr. Bernstein. I reckon Mr. Carter doesn’t like publicity. We’re quiet, backwoods people, sir,” he added with a twinkle. “I know the lady. She’s mighty pretty, and I agree with you she’d make a mighty fine picture. Just the style you want, too.” “No, sir, not my style. The public--well, it’s this way. They like ’em small, an’ this lady’s just the pattern--a cute, dark little thing. Personally”--Mr. Bernstein sighed--“I like ’em large. Now there’s Rosamond Silvertree--you know her, of course, colonel?” Again the colonel smoothed his mustache thoughtfully. “Can’t say that I do, sir,” he replied gently. “Pretty name, though?” “Don’t know Rosamond Silvertree?” Mr. Bernstein struck the table with the palm of his hand. “Sir, you’re behind your times! She’s a motion-picture star, sir! She’s my ideal woman, Colonel Denbigh. She’s five feet eleven inches, and she weighs one hundred and eighty-seven pounds. She’s a peach, sir! Got those blue eyes that go to the heart, and her hair’s the color of butter--makes you think of good butter in spring-time! I have her on the screen all the time. The poor girl’s nearly worn out. The only trouble is you can’t always get men to play opposite to her. Greenfield comes up one day last month. ‘Sammy,’ says he, ‘I can’t put Rosy in “The Dream of the Harem.”’ ‘What in thunder d’you mean by that?’ says I. ‘Can’t do it,’ says he. ‘Jack Pickling’--that’s our leading man--‘Jack Pickling looks like a shrimp beside of her!’ What d’you think I did, Colonel Denbigh?” The colonel shook his head gravely. “I’ve no idea, sir. Put her on a diet?” “Diet? Rosy? No, sir! I fired Jack Pickling!” Bernstein lay back in his chair and smiled. He felt that he had reached the climax, but the climax was lost on Colonel Denbigh. “If your leading lady is so fine, I shouldn’t think you’d need Mrs. Carter,” he observed mildly. Mr. Bernstein smiled with a superior air.