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 cried. I can't bear it. . . . It was absolutely rotten, this film of yours. I was ashamed of you.

A very real happiness shone in Ambrose's eyes.

I don't know, he replied. I didn't see it. I didn't see anything. I must have been unconscious.

But you wrote it, she insisted, and the story was just as bad as the photography and the acting.

No, I didn't, Billie! he protested. I don't even know what the damn thing's about.

Then, nearly as embarrassed, probably, as Tess of the D'Urbervilles confessing her past to Angel Clare on their wedding night, Ambrose sat down beside Georgiana, clasped her hand between his palms and stammered out the whole history of his fabulous moving picture career.

At the close, she felt compelled to make a remark which had already been spoken in the same connection: I've got to hand it to you, kid! Further, she smiled contentedly and patted his cheek lovingly as she went on: You don't know what a relief this is to me, Ambrose. You see I know now that you haven't sullied your real self, destroyed your artistic soul.

I've taken money under false pretences. I'll return it! Ambrose cried.

You'll do nothing of the kind. . . . Georgiana was stern. . . . Haven't they used your name? I