the next picture--you trying to dance just the way you been doing
with me. If you don't close to a good hand I'll eat my last pay-check."

The lessons ceased. She seemed no longer to think it desirable that her
pupil should become proficient in the modern steps. He was puzzled by
her decision. Why should one of Baird's serious plays need an actor who
forgot his feet in a dance?

There were more social evenings at the Montague home. Twice the
gathering was enlarged by other members of the film colony, a supper
was served and poker played for inconsiderable stakes. In this game of
chance the Montague girl proved to be conservative, not to say miserly,
and was made to suffer genuinely when Merton Gill displayed a reckless
spirit in the betting. That he amassed winnings of ninety-eight cents
one night did not reassure her. She pointed out that he might easily
have lost this sum.

She was indeed being a mother to the defenceless boy. It was after a
gambling session that she demanded to be told what he was doing with
his salary. His careless hazarding of poker-chips had caused her to be
fearful of his general money sense.

Merton Gill had indeed been reckless. He was now, he felt, actually one
of the Hollywood set. He wondered how Tessie Kearns would regard his
progress. Would she be alarmed to know he attended those gay parties
that so often brought the film colony into unfavourable public notice?
Jolly dinners, dancing, gambling, drinking with actresses--for Mr.
Montague had at last turned out a beer that met with the approval not
only of his guests but of his own more exacting family. The vivacious
brew would now and again behave unreasonably at the moment of being
released, but it was potable when subdued.

It was a gay life, Merton felt. And as for the Montague girl's questions
and warnings about his money, he would show her! He had, of course,
discharged his debt to her in the first two weeks of his work with
Baird. Now he would show her what he really thought of money.

He would buy her a gift whose presentation should mark a certain great
occasion. It should occur on the eve of his screen debut, and would
fittingly testify his gratitude. For the girl, after all, had made him
what he was. And the first piece was close to its premiere. Already he
had seen advance notices in the newspapers. The piece was called Hearts
On Fire, and in it, so the notices said, the comedy manager had at
last realized an ambition long