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 fingered her shagreen lighter and cigarette case which lay in her lap. . . . In Hollywood, she went on, they say I am temperamental. Why? Because I cannot play a love scene to cheap jazz. The orchestra plays a banal tune. I stop. What is the matter? the director asks. I tell him I cannot act to such music. The music is changed. Another day I stop again. Why? Because there are visitors on the set. They spy on me. They spoil my mood. I go home for the day. Another day when I am dressed and made up they lead me to an open car to drive to location. I will not go.

You see it is this way, Mr. Deacon, my work is very serious to me. Besides, when I am joyous, I am joyous. Happy and carefree! I love the world. . . . She flung her arms wide. . . . I take pleasure in everything. But when I am upset I become a fiend. . . her voice grated and scratched. . . and I was upset just now. Very much upset. Fortunately it was only Elissa. I nearly killed an electrician once. You see I am always right and I am serious, isn't it? They understand me after all in Hollywood. . . . She was smiling once more. . . . They know I am only a child. They humour me. They pet me.

Ambrose wondered whether he wouldn't prefer to be alone in a cage with a leopard. He was quite in