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Inside it is luxuriously equipped, as bents the home of Opera. 'Yes, said the American, as the speaker paused. Smyth produced a watch from nowhere in particular. 'It is just past ten, he said. 'I am not sure whether it is Charlie Chaplin or Mary Pickford showing on the screen at this hour, at the London Opera House. A murmur of applause acknowledged the artist's well-planned climax.
"Nurse, the racoon that the gentleman had would drink sweet whisky punch; but my governess said it was not right to give it to him; and Major Pickford laughed, and declared the racoon must have looked very funny when he was tipsy. Was not the Major naughty to say so?" Mrs. Frazer said it was not quite proper.
We went on calmly down the lane and in two minutes we fell into a whole German camp. There were tents and wagons and cannon and camp fires, and thousands of soldiers. I saw some carts there which they must have captured from the English bearing the familiar names of "Lyons' Tea" and "Pickford" vans! An officer came up and asked in German what we wanted.
What, he broke off to ask, did Pilkington think of the idea? Pilkington thought the idea splendid. Miss Mariner, with her charm and looks, would be wonderful in the movies. There was, said Uncle Chris, a future for a girl in the movies. Mr Pilkington agreed cordially. A great future. "Look at Mary Pickford!" said Uncle Chris. "Millions a year!"
It might be called sculptural, but for the magnificence of the turban of the rajah who converses with them, the glitter of the light round his shoulders, and the scheme of shadow out of which the three figures rise. The arrangement remotely reminds one of several of Rembrandt's semi-oriental musings. Here is a picture of Mary Pickford as Fanchon the Cricket.
Here was a Romance with a capital R, which was as dear to her kindly heart as a Mary Pickford film. "I'm sure I hope you'll be very happy, sir," she said. "So do I, Mrs. Green though I've a shrewd suspicion, I shall be profoundly miserable." He resolutely turned his back on the photo. "I'm playing a little game this afternoon, most motherly of women.
When he took down the transparent stage-coach, he ought to have given the town a transparent van. With a gloomy conviction that Pickford is wholly utilitarian and unimaginative, I proceeded on my way.
"I thought it was scarcely a sportsmanlike thing to do," said Pickford, noticing the look on Bob's face; "I told him so, too. We were talking about you only last night." "Is Trevanion here, then?" "Yes: didn't you know? He has been in the thick of it the whole day. As you know, he is Captain of the Royal West a fine lot of men he has, too." "And he thinks I am still in Cornwall?" asked Bob.
When you see one flashed on the screen, you know instantly you are dealing with royalty or its implications. The last one I saw that made any particular impression was when Mary Pickford acted in Such a Little Queen. I only wished then that she had a more convincing throne. Let us cut one out of black cardboard.
I know the Misses Osborne were excellent critics of a Cashmere shawl, or a pink satin slip; and when Miss Turner had hers dyed purple, and made into a spencer; and when Miss Pickford had her ermine tippet twisted into a muff and trimmings, I warrant you the changes did not escape the two intelligent young women before mentioned.
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