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 on the pact that had been tentatively arranged between Ambrose and the fascinating and compelling Imperia Starling. The director had visited the playwright soon after his dismissal from the royal presence and had, apparently from the beginning, taken it for granted that Ambrose had agreed to enlist.

So, you are coming with us to Hollywood! was his jovial greeting, an approach so disarming in its disregard of the known facts that Ambrose's lips had discovered no negative with which to combat it. As he had never at any time in his career considered the possibility of visiting Hollywood, even unprofessionally, or of writing for the films from any vantage point whatever, he was not fortified with arguments—supposing he had possessed any talent for argument—against this procedure.

Sitting disconsolately in this charming room, hung in gay glazed chintz, his situation seemed to be desperate. It came down to this: if he could not write his usual story or play in New York how could he expect to do better far away from his habitual environment in a line of work absolutely alien? Why, aside from The Birth of a Nation, Dr. Caligari, and a picture or two with Charlie Chaplin he could not recall that he had ever seen a film. He was quite aware, naturally, of the importance of the