tion. So Beauregard became a producer in order that he might command these armies of artisans, vainly hoping that he, at the head, would be recognized as the artist.
Beauregard was always uncomfortable in the presence of Deane. He felt that he was being ridiculed though there was no index of Deane's thoughts in his quiet composure, his deliberate gestures, his frank, smiling eyes.
Beauregard boasted of Deane's college education. There was only a handful of college men in the whole profession—several of them were actors. Beauregard, who dared tell no lies about his own lack of education, which was apparent in spite of a superficial veneer, always mentioned this:
"I've got college men working for me. Deane's a clever chap from Harvard. He's had a better education than I have, but you'd be surprised how little he really knows about Art. Art, I guess, is born in a man. Take me, for instance. I love every branch of it! I'd have been an actor or a musician myself if I hadn’t been destined to be a Wall Street broker, and a producer of plays and pictures."
How Beauregard hated Deane's remarks about Art in the moving picture industry!
Beauregard was there when Deane interviewed Minnie. He saw at once why Deane wanted her, with her delicate, oval face, the waving lustrous hair, white, even teeth, gray eyes, shadowed by long lashes, and full, laughter-loving mouth.
Deane sat in his chair behind the desk looking at her with keen appraising eyes. He weighed his words, at the same time intensely studying the reaction on Minnie. Beauregard stirred uneasily. He failed several times to light his cigar, letting the match burn to his highly polished nails. Baiting
