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"I told Trevanion he was altogether mistaken in you," went on Pickford; "but he gave such details of your refusal, and described in such graphic language what others had said about you, that it seemed impossible for him to be mistaken. Some girl gave you a white feather, didn't she, at the Public Hall in St. Ia?" "Did Trevanion tell you that?" and there was anger in Bob's voice.
She was in tears. She was gone before we could apologize or offer flowers. So I say in applying this chapter, in our present stage of civilization, sit on the front seat, where no one can hear your whisperings but Mary Pickford on the screen. She is but a shadow there, and will not mind. I leave this argument as a monument, just as it was written, in 1914 and '15.
Cabbage feelin' well, too? Well, well, still discussing the movies, Herby? Got any new opinions about Mary Pickford? Well, well. Say, I met another guy that's as nutty as you, Herby; he thinks that Wilhelm Jenkins Bryan is a great statesman. Let's hear some more about the Sage of Free Silver, Herby."
They were allowed the saccharine Pickford, and of course Fairbanks's gravity-defying feats, and Chaplin's gorgeous grotesqueries. You had to read the titles for Peter. Hannah wasn't as quick at this as were Ed or Marcia, and Peter was sometimes impatient, though politely so. And so sixty swung round. At sixty Hannah Winter had a suitor. Inwardly she resented him.
They were so ignorant of the new arts that even Mary Pickford meant hardly more to them than Picasso or Matisse. Jim brought out a photograph of Kedzie, a small one that he carried in his pocket-book for company. The problem of what she looked like distracted attention for the moment from the problem of what she did and was. Mrs. Dyckman took the picture and perused it anxiously.
Major Pickford laughed when I said so, but he promised to get me a live fawn. Nurse, what is a fawn?" "It is a young deer, my lady." "Nurse, please can you tell me anything about fawns? Are they pretty creatures, and can they be tamed; or are they fierce, wild little things?"
We have the queen of the marionettes already, without the play. One description of the Intimate-and-friendly Comedy would be the Mary Pickford kind of a story. None has as yet appeared. But we know the Mary Pickford mood. When it is gentlest, most roguish, most exalted, it is a prophecy of what this type should be, not only in the actress, but in the scenario and setting.
We will never make a good loafer. There is too much competition. So we came back, sadly, to our rolltop and fell to musing. We picked up a magazine and found some pictures showing how Mary Pickford washes her hair. And it occurred to us that if a strain like that is put upon a weak woman we surely ought to be able to go on moiling for a while, Indian summer or not.
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