ANNAN had every intention of going to Jane Street. But Barry Annan was that kind of busy man who takes the most convenient diversion in the interims of work.
He wrote a note to Eris, promising to stop in very soon; but week-ends interfered. Then, in August, a house party at Southampton, another in Saratoga for the races, and the remaining two weeks trout fishing in the Maine forests, convicted him as the sort of social liar everybody understands.
But Eris was not anybody yet. She did not understand. There was not a single evening she had not waited for him, not daring to go out lest she miss him.
Only when the Betsy Blythe Company departed on location did Eris abandon hope and pack her little satchel for the Harlem & Westchester train.
Annan, at Portage Camps, had a letter from Betsy Blythe on location, dated from Cross River in Westchester.
“Our first picture is called ‘The Real Thing,’” she wrote, “and we’re shooting all our exteriors while the foliage lasts. This is a wonderful spot for that—everything within a mile—and perfect weather.
“Frank Donnell is my director—a dear! And Stoll is our camera-man—none better in the profession. Our people are pretty good,—one or two miscast, I fear,—and we can get all the extras we can use, right here,—it’s hick-stuff, my dear, and there’s poods of it at hand.
“My people bought Quilling’s novel for $50,000. You should have heard Levant scream! But Dick Quilling can’t be had for nothing, and Crystal Gray herself did the continuity.
“I’m afraid to tell you how our footage stands—and no interiors so far. But our sets will be few and will cost nothing.
“Why should Tobacco shriek? We have our release already through the Five Star, and we get back our cost of production. Isn’t that sound business?
“Besides, five weeks should be sufficient for studio shooting. We get the Willow Tree Studios. Frank Donnell will do the cutting in the Lansing Laboratories, and use their projection rooms.
“I’ve a peach of a part if I’m up to it. Nobody else near me. Wally Crawford plays opposite—a very trying kid—the good-looking, smarty, rather common sort—all plastered hair and eyelashes—you know?
“The other principals will do.
“I’m very happy, Barry. I could even believe you sincere if you were here—I mean believe it for an hour or two of Westchester moonlight.
“I write Dad and Mother every night. They’ve been out here in the car several times. Rosalind motored out Sunday. We had an awfully good time.
“Don’t you want to come up before we strike our tents and beat it for the Bronx?
“Yours contentedly,
“BETSY B.
“P. S.—I forgot to say that your little protégée, Eris, does extremely well whatever is required of her. She plays one of those self-conscious rustics, half educated, vain, credulous, and with a capacity for a world of mischief. I’m a pig, I suppose, but I’m glad Crystal Gray cut the part to slivers. Eris has no experience and no training, of course, but she screens well, is intelligent, and does exactly what Frank Donnell tells her to do.
“She comes, diffidently, to sit in my hammock with me after dinner, and curls up like a tired kitten. But, like a kitten, she is receptive, responsive, ready to play or be talked to—an unspoiled, generous nature already actively forming a character the daily development of which is very interesting to watch.
“I told her I was writing to you. She asks, very shyly, to be ‘faithfully remembered.’
“I, also, but not faithfully.
“BETSY.”