Well, we did branch out a bit. We did a picture in Greenwich, Connecticut. Driving to the station, our picture day finished, we passed a magnificent property, hemmed in by high fences and protected with beautiful iron gates. Signs read “Private Property. Keep Out.” We heeded them not. In our nervous excitement (we were not calm about this deed of valor) we kept away from the residence proper, and drove to the outbuildings and the Superintendent’s office. Told him we’d been working in the country near by and would appreciate it much if we could come on the morrow and take some scenes; slipped him a twenty, and that did the trick. There was nothing we had missed driving around Millbank, which, we learned later, was the home of Mrs. A. A. Anderson, the well-known philanthropist who passed away some few years ago. So on the morrow, bright and early, we dropped anchor there, made up in one of the barns, and were rehearsing nicely, being very quiet and circumspect, when down the pathway coming directly toward us, with blood in her eye, marched the irate Mrs. Anderson. Trembling and weak-kneed we looked about us. Could we be hearing aright? Was she really saying those dreadful things to us? Weakly we protested our innocence. Vain our explanation. And so we folded our tents and meekly and shamefacedly slunk away. Before the summer was over we went to Seagate and Atlantic Highlands. It wasn’t very pleasant at Atlantic Highlands, for here we encountered the summer boarder. As they had nothing better to do, they would see what we were going to do. We were generally being lovers, of course, and strolling in pairs beneath a sunshade until we reached the foreground, where we were to make a graceful flop onto the sandy beach and play our parts beneath the flirtatious parasol. Before we were ready to take the scene we had to put ropes up to keep back the uninvited audience which giggled and tee-heed and commented loudly throughout. We felt like monkeys in a zoo--as if we’d gone back to the day when the populace jeered the old strolling players of Stratford town. Mr. Griffith got badly annoyed when we had such experiences. His job worried him, the nasty publicity of doing our work in the street, like ditch diggers. So he had to pick on some one and I was handy. How could _I_ stand for it? Why was _I_ willing to endure it? He _had_ to, of course. So thinking to frighten me and make me a good girl who’d stay home, he said: “Something has occurred to me; it’s probable this business might get kind of public--some day, you know, you may get in the subway and have all the people stare at you while they whisper to each other, ‘That’s that girl we saw in the movie the other night.’ _And how would you like that?_” One saving grace the Highlands had for us. We could get a swim sometimes. And we discovered Galilee, a fishing village about twenty miles down the coast, the locale of that first version of Enoch Arden--“After Many Years.”