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Updated: June 11, 2025
"You're not wantin' to go back, are ye?" "N-no," faltered Harrietta. Then, brazenly, hotly: "Yes, yes!" ending, miserably, with: "But my contract. Six months." "You can break it, if you're fool enough, when they've finished this picture, though why you should want to " Irish Mary looked as belligerent as her kindly Celtic face could manage.
Outside her window here a great scarlet hibiscus stuck its tongue out at her. Harrietta stuck her tongue out at it, childishly, and turned away. She liked a certain reticence in flowers, as in everything else. She sat down at the desk, took up a sheet of lavender and gold paper and the great lavender plumed pen.
Harrietta Fuller liked to know that at such and such an hour she would be in her dressing room; at such and such an hour on the stage; precisely at another hour she would again be in her dressing room preparing to go home. Then the stage would be darkened. They would be putting the scenery away. She would be crossing the bare stage on her way home.
And the listener at last breaks out with: "This is all very interesting, but I feel as if I know her now. What then?" Then the thing to do is to go serenely on telling, for example, how the young thing in Harrietta Fuller's company invariably came up to her at the first rehearsal and said tremulously: "Miss Fuller, I you won't mind I just want to tell you how proud I am to be one of your company.
"It isn't that. You don't understand. To-day " "Well, what's happened to-day that's so turrible, then?" But how could Harrietta tell her? "To-day " she began again, faltered, stopped. To-day, you must know, this had happened: It was the Big Scene of the film. Lydia Lissome, in black lace nightgown and ermine negligee, her hair in marcel waves, had just been "shot" for it.
Indoor scenes were taken in one group, so that the end of the story might often be the first to be filmed. For a week Harrietta was dressed, made up, and ready for work at nine o'clock, and for a week she wasn't used in a single scene. The hours of waiting made her frantic. The sun was white hot. Her little dressing room was stifling.
They use quite commonplace idiom when they're excited." "Thanks," said the author, elaborately polite. "That's the big scene in the play. It'll be a knockout." When Harrietta tried to speak these lines in rehearsal she began to giggle and ended in throwing up the ridiculous part. They gave it to that little Frankie Langdon, and the playwright's prophecy came true.
Sometimes he kept his word, and Harrietta, six months later, would look up from the manuscript to say: "This is delightful! It's what I've been looking for for years. The deftness of the comedy. And that little scene with the gardener!"
Ken never talked to her about her lashes. Ken thought she was the most beauteous, witty, intelligent woman in the world, but he had never told her so, and she found herself wishing he would. Ken was forty-one and Knew About Etchings. He knew about a lot of other things, too. Difficult, complex things like Harrietta Fuller, for example. Harrietta refused to call him an inventor.
You'd like him. "When I marry," Harrietta would announce, "which will be never, it will be the only son of a rich iron king from Duluth, Minnesota. And I'll go there to live in an eighteen-room mansion and pluck roses for the breakfast room." "There are few roses in Duluth," said Ken, "to speak of. And no breakfast rooms.
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