roses, vines, and a vista of the ends
of enormous structures painted yellow. And this avenue is sprightly with
the passing of enviable persons who are rightly there, some in alien
garb, some in the duller uniform of the humble artisan, some in the
pressed and garnished trappings of rich overlords.

It is really best to stand across the street for this clandestine view
of heart-shaking delights. If you stand close to the gate to peer past
the bulky shape of the warder he is likely to turn and give you a cold
look. Further, he is averse to light conversation, being always morosely
absorbed--yet with an eye ever alert for intrusive outlanders--in his
evening paper. He never reads a morning paper, but has some means of
obtaining at an early hour each morning a pink or green evening paper
that shrieks with crimson headlines. Such has been his reading
through all time, and this may have been an element in shaping his now
inveterate hostility toward those who would engage him in meaningless
talk. Even in accepting the gift of an excellent cigar he betrays only
a bored condescension. There is no relenting of countenance, no genial
relaxing of an ingrained suspicion toward all who approach him, no
cordiality, in short, such as would lead you to believe that he might
be glad to look over a bunch of stills taken by the most artistic
photographer in all Simsbury, Illinois. So you let him severely alone
after a bit, and go to stand across the street, your neatly wrapped art
studies under your arm, and leaning against the trunk of a eucalyptus
tree, you stare brazenly past him into the city of wonders.

It is thus we first observe that rising young screen actor, Clifford
Armytage, beginning the tenth day of his determined effort to become
much more closely identified with screen activities than hitherto. Ten
days of waiting outside the guarded gate had been his, but no other ten
days of his life had seemed so eventful or passed so swiftly. For at
last he stood before his goal, had actually fastened his eyes upon so
much of it as might be seen through its gate. Never had he achieved so
much downright actuality.

Back in Simsbury on a Sunday morning he had often strolled over to
the depot at early train time for a sight of the two metal containers
housing the films shown at the Bijou Palace the day before. They would
be on the platform, pasted over with express labels. He would stand by
them, even touch them, examine the padlocks, t