Sunbeams filtered through the slatted ceiling of the Orange Rest Health Spa's elegant pavilion, casting a brilliant patchwork pattern of light and shadow on the white wicker tables and the people seated at them. The San Gabriel Mountains loomed in the near distance, looking remarkably green and friendly for a mountain range. The heavenly scent of orange blossoms and honeysuckle mingled with the robust aroma of roses to create an almost mystical atmosphere when combined with the variegated light and the overall beauty of the pavilion and its surroundings.

Amy Wilkes thought that if she were dealing with anyone other than the obnoxious human crocodile snarling at her from his white wicker chair, her spirits would be as bright and cheery as the sun itself. She wasn't, and they weren't. Horace Huxtable was the most recalcitrant, worst mannered, least respectful bully of a patient ever to sully the portals of her uncle Frank's health spa. What's more, he was a drunkard and a lecherous old goat. And he was rich. Rich, rich, rich. It wasn't fair, and Amy detested him.

"Mr. Huxtable," she said in her sternest tone, despising the task and wishing she could use less refined methods to make him behave--hammering him on the head with a blunt instrument, for instance--"you must drink your orange juice."

"Oh, must I?"

Amy imagined he'd practiced his sneer in front of a mirror in order to polish it to such a high gloss. "Yes."

"The stuff is vile." His sneer transformed into a glower, and he reminded her of a sulky child. "Damned if I will."

She glowered right back. "My uncle prefers that his guests refrain from the use of profanity on his premises, Mr. Huxtable."

"I don't give a crap what your uncle prefers, you damned little prude."

With her lips pressed together in a tight line, Amy frowned down at the man who was here at her uncle's health spa in Pasadena in order to dry himself out. He was here of his own volition. No one could force a person to take the cure.

Personally, Amy wished Huxtable would just go away and drown himself in a butt of malmsey--whatever that was--like that fellow in Richard III. He wasn't cooperating in his health regimen to the least degree, and Amy had thought from the moment he staggered through the front door that he was both horrid and egotistical.

Motion picture actors, she thought grimly, ought to be locked away so they can't contaminate the rest of us. They were a new breed, motion picture actors, but Amy had already encountered enough of the species to have formed a strong opinion about them. "Orange juice is the elixir of life, Mr. Huxtable," she said primly, reciting a line from her uncle's colorful brochure.

"Elixir of life, my ass," rumbled the well-known actor in his deep and melodious voice which ought, in a just world, to have belonged to some fellow who deserved it.

Again, Amy recoiled from his language. "Well, really!"

He chuckled. "Now, now, girlie. You're too innocent for this world, do you know that?"

"I know no such thing, Mr. Huxtable. I do, however, know that you're paying a good bit of money to stay here and restore yourself to some kind of health."

"Who the hell are you, anyhow? Mary Baker Eddy?"

Amy drew in a deep breath, recalling the copy of Science and Health residing upstairs in her bedroom. Her aunt, an ardent disciple of Mrs. Baker Eddy, had given it to her, and Amy always felt guilty for not reading it more often. Today, however, she wished she'd brought it here with her. She'd thump Mr. Huxtable over his hard head with it. That might do him some good. It would make her feel better, at any rate. "It would do you no harm to read her book, sir."

"Pshaw." Huxtable waved that away. "My ass."

"It seems to me you should be trying to profit from this experience, not fight every attempt to help you recover."

Recover, my ass."

Feeling savage, Amy said through gritted teeth, "I see you have a limited vocabulary."

He laughed.

"Anyhow, what about the money? Don't you care about wasting your money?"

If Amy had enough money to spend a month at her uncle's fancy health spa, she'd consider herself rich beyond avarice. It was her goal never to be insecure again in her lifetime, and she furiously resented people who wasted what she'd give her eyeteeth to possess. She wouldn't drink away a fortune. She wouldn't despise others' efforts on her behalf. She, unlike Horace Huxtable, was a reasonable and sensible human being.

He waved that one away. "I'm not paying. The Peerless Studio is."

"Then you ought to be cooperative. In fact, you ought to be grateful. I'm sure they won't appreciate you wasting this opportunity and squandering their money."

"Balderdash. They need me."

Amy wrinkled her nose and refrained from making the statement she believed his words deserved.

Huxtable, caught up in his own thoughts and indifferent to anyone else's opinions said, "If this bilgewater is so wonderful, I'll let you drink it, my adorable Miss Wilkes."

Amy gave up. She knew she shouldn't. Part of her job here was to see that the patients--she'd begun to think of them as inmates, actually--ate properly and drank their daily quota of orange juice. Most of them were suffering from the same excesses as was Huxtable--too much food and drink. That, to Amy's mind, was grossly unfair, considering how many people in the world went to bed hungry every day and had perishingly little with which to sustain themselves. Children died every day from starvation--Amy herself might have starved to death if her wonderful aunt and uncle hadn't rescued her--and Amy conceived of wastefulness as a crime.

But were her uncle's patients grateful? Did they cooperate in their own recovery and redemption? Did they take full advantage of this beautiful health spa? Did they eat their oatmeal and drink their orange juice with the appreciation it deserved? Did they study the health magazines Uncle Frank distributed in an effort to help them regain their wellbeing?

No. Most of them were defiant and uncooperative at least some of the time. Mr. Horace Huxtable, noted theatrical actor and lately to be seen on celluloid in nickelodeons across the country, seemed to go out of his way to be impossible.

She lifted her chin. "I shall leave you here, then, to contemplate the nature of your health. And I should advise you to begin looking kindly upon orange juice, Mr. Huxtable. If what I read in the newspapers is true, the whole nation will be liquor-free soon." Although she knew she shouldn't--after all, according to her uncle, the customer was always right no matter how wrong he was--she smirked.

"God, what a thought!" Huxtable gave a visible shudder.

"I think it's a perfectly splendid one." She whirled to go and almost bumped into a tall, slender, brown-haired man, modishly dressed in a light-colored summer motoring suit, with a driving scarf wound around his neck, and carrying a pair of motoring goggles. Amy chalked him up for another movie fellow, disliked him for it, nodded curtly, and marched off to deal with Mrs. Fellows, who might be fat, silly, and self-indulgent, but who wasn't nearly as cantankerous as Horace Huxtable.

Martin Tafft, the fashionably dressed gentleman, whipped off his soft cap and said, "I'm very sorry, ma'am," to her stiff back, but she didn't turn around or acknowledge his apology. He sighed, deducing at once that Huxtable had said or done something to scandalize her. How typical of the overbearing brute. Nevertheless, Martin had a job to do, so he got at it.

"Huxtable," he said with a friendly smile. "You're looking well today."

He looked like a dipsomaniacal wastrel, actually, but Martin couldn't bring himself to say so aloud since Huxtable could cost the Peerless Motion Picture Studio a lot of money if he didn't dry out soon. Huxtable was only forty-two years old, for heaven's sake, and he had within his vanity-stuffed body a wealth of talent. It was a shame, both for Huxtable himself and for Peerless, the studio for which Martin labored, that he seemed determined to drink himself into an early grave.

"I feel like shit," Huxtable answered back, lifting his glass of orange juice. "Do you see this?"

"Yes."

"It's repellent stuff. Whoever invented the orange ought to be shot."

"I think God has that distinction," murmured Martin. "I doubt if a shot would do any good."

"A shot would do me good," the actor growled.

"Nonsense. Booze will be the death of you." Martin breathed deeply and sat when Huxtable waved him at a chair, looking around with interest. "It sure smells good around here. Orange blossoms, I presume. This place is very pretty."

"Hunh."

So much for beating around the bush. Martin got down to brass tacks. "I came to tell you the latest developments with One and Only."

At last Huxtable seemed to be interested. His bloodshot eyes focused on Martin. "Have you found a proper cowboy?"

"Yes. Or, rather, yup." Martin smiled. Huxtable didn't. Martin sighed again. "He's a young, gingery fellow named Charles Fox, and he's been working on a ranch in Arizona." Martin decided not to make any mention of what kind of ranch it was, feeling certain that Huxtable would sneer.

"Ah." Huxtable squinted narrowly. "A handsome lad, is he?"

This was tricky, mainly because Charlie Fox was very handsome. He sure took the shine out of Huxtable in his current condition. But the celluloid could hide many flaws, and so could theatrical makeup, and Huxtable was already a well-beloved character--thank God his many fans didn't know him personally--so Martin didn't anticipate any chance of Charlie making a better impression on the public than the leading man in the movie. "He's fairly good-looking," he said noncommittally.

Huxtable huffed with irritation. "God, I hate this stuff." He lifted his orange-juice glass again and drained it. Then he gave an eloquent shudder and burped. "What they need to do is mix some gin in it. Make it palatable."

Martin, who had been dealing with actors for several years, was not daunted by Huxtable's boorish manners. He plowed on. "We still need to find you a leading lady."

Huxtable held up a hand. "Done."

His mouth already open to continue the leading-lady line, Martin used his breath to say, "I beg your pardon?"

"I've done that part of your job for you, Martin old boy. I'm sure you noticed that pretty little filly you just bumped in to?"

"We didn't actually touch," mumbled Martin.

"Pity, that, but you'll try harder next time, I'm sure." He gave Martin a lascivious wink, from which it was all Martin could do not to shrink. "I want her to star with me."

Martin stared at Huxtable for a moment, then turned in his chair to see if he could catch site of the young woman with whom he'd narrowly avoided contact. She was at present standing beside an elderly woman at a table on the other side of the room, smiling attractively. She was a striking girl, probably around eighteen or nineteen, with thick, reddish-brown hair piled on top of her head, and very nice eyes. Martin couldn't see their color from where he sat, but it didn't matter what color anything was since, on celluloid, it all came out black-and-white. Her lashes were thick, too, and wouldn't require much makeup.

She had a superb figure and looked dignified in her narrow black skirt, and prim white shirtwaist with the high collar encircled by a tidy black bow tie. She actually fitted the description of the leading lady in One and Only admirably. Still, Martin had grave doubts about asking her to act in a movie with Horace Huxtable, who would probably eat her alive and spit out the pieces.

"Her?" he asked dubiously.

"Her." Huxtable ran his fingers across his natty mustache. "I want her."

Martin didn't like the sound of this. "Has she any experience?"

"Not the kind you mean. Probably not the kind I mean, either." His chuckle rumbled out, an oily blot on the soft, sweet-smelling Pasadena air.

Deciding a firm hand was needed here, Martin said, "Now see here, Huxtable. You can't go about the country deflowering virgins. We have a picture to shoot, and Mr. Lovejoy is planning on making it the biggest and best one yet. Four reels, for heaven's sake. This picture will make Lovejoy Studio a name to be reckoned with in the industry. It's an expensive project, and we need a cast of professionals to act in it. I can't hire just anybody."

"You hired that cowboy."

"That's different. The public is clamoring for cowboy pictures and more cowboy pictures, and all the studios are using real cowboys nowadays. They add authenticity, and the movie-going public love it."

"Pshaw. Let me have that tidy bundle, and I'll give you all the authenticity you want."

The next time his studio head, Phineas Lovejoy, wanted to hire Horace Huxtable to act in a moving picture, Martin was going to object with all the energy in his body. He didn't care to have pimp added to his already over-full list of responsibilities at the studio.

"What about Ginny Mae Williams?"

Huxtable made a rude noise which Martin correctly interpreted as an objection.

"Mabel Gresham?" Another noise, ruder this time.

"Wilma Patecky?"

"Good God, man! What do you think I am?"

A sot, a reprobate, and a debauched cad, thought Martin instantly. He said, "You're a fine actor, Huxtable, and one with a loyal following." Otherwise, Peerless wouldn't have anything to do with him.

"You're damned right I am. I have instincts." He pounded his fist on the table. "And I know a good screen presence when I see one. I want her."

"Very well." Martin resigned himself to tackle an unpleasant task. "I'll speak to her."

"You'll do more than speak to her. You'll hire her."

Irritated, Martin said, "I'll do my best."

"You'll succeed," Huxtable said complacently. "What girl wouldn't leap at the chance to act in a motion picture with Horace Huxtable."

Any girl who possesses half a brain. Martin said, "Right. I'll talk to her now." He got up to leave, but thought it wouldn't hurt to give Huxtable a gentle warning. Actors and their exalted emotions and lofty opinions of themselves were a pain in the neck, but as Phineas had pointed out to Martin more than once, one had to pamper the blockheads. However, a hint wouldn't hurt.

He looked down at the Peerless star, who was preening himself. "Remember, Huxtable, the studio is paying for your stay here because we want you sober for the shooting. If you don't do your best in this picture, which will be the biggest, most expensive one made to date by any studio in the entire world, the chances are good that your reputation as a reliable actor will be ruined beyond recovery. You've had plenty of chances, and won't be given another."

Huxtable drew himself up as if Martin's words had mortally offended him. "Don't you talk to me like that, you impudent pup!"

Martin's temper snapped. "It's about time somebody did, because it's the truth. You aren't going to be able to live on your looks much longer. You're not only getting older, but you're ruining yourself with your drinking. If you must know the truth, you're beginning to look mighty liverish. Keep drinking orange juice, old man. It might just save your career."

Since he'd been associated with theatrics long enough to recognize a good exit line when he said one, Martin turned on his heel and walked toward the girl, leaving Huxtable in his chair, sputtering angrily.

###

If Amy Wilkes possessed a single defining personality trait, it was sensibleness. She'd learned long ago that the only way to get on in life was to make sensible plans and stick to them, no matter what obstacles people threw in her way.

At the tender age of seven, she'd lost her parents, a tragedy that had precipitated her descent into such a cauldron of grief, terror, and pain that she'd never forgotten it. She aimed never to experience such a catastrophe again and had made it a guiding principle never to allow insecurity so much as a toehold in her life.

Her gratitude toward her uncle Frank and aunt Julia was boundless. They'd taken her in when they'd learned of the dire straits into which she'd fallen, and loved her as if she'd been their own child.

For years now, Amy had been working for her aunt and uncle, starting during her summer vacations from school. Now she worked for them year-round. She enjoyed the work, although she didn't anticipate being employed at the Orange Rest Health Spa forever. She was only twenty years old, but already she'd experienced happiness and sadness, security and insecurity, and had been forced to put aside a child's rose-colored glasses and view the world as it was.

Amy had as many dreams for her future as any other young, modern woman, although her dreams might be considered by more romantic young women as awfully dull. And even Amy had to admit that her dreams weren't outrageous. She didn't long to become a hot-air balloonist, for instance. Nor did she want to conquer Mount Everest or swim the English Channel or join Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show.

Her dreams were much more reasonable than that. In fact, some people might call them prosaic. They didn't seem prosaic to Amy. They seemed golden, probably because her own family life with her mother and father had been cut so tragically short.

But she knew one thing for certain: Someday she was going to have a home and family of her own. That was all. The extent of her most precious and idyllic hopes for her future. Her friends thought she was remarkably short-sighted, but Amy knew what it was to lose life's most priceless gifts; she knew what was important in life and what was mere window-dressing.

She even had a young man, Vernon Catesby, who appeared at this time to be the most likely means for Amy to achieve her dream. If he was the least bit stuffy, Amy didn't mind. She craved security. Predictability and security, to her at least, went hand in hand, and Vernon was nothing if not predictable.

At this particular moment, however, Amy wasn't contemplating her life's dream or Vernon Catesby. No. At this moment, she and Martin Tafft were seated in the snug lounge of the Orange Rest Health Spa, and Amy was staring at him, thinking he didn't fit into her dream-achieving pattern one tiny little trifling iota of an atom. In fact, she believed she'd misunderstood him and wondered if she could possibly be going deaf. Admittedly, she was rather young for that, but she couldn't conceive of what she'd heard any other way.

The lounge at the Orange Rest was furnished in a South-Seas style with palm trees, Hawaiian prints on the sofa cushions, and woven grass matting on the floor. The afternoon heat had driven most of the inmates to their rooms where electric fans added a modicum of comfort to the still air. This room, which was shaded by a row of stately pepper trees, was fairly comfortable.

With her hands folded modestly and resting on the table between herself and Martin, Amy stared at him, dumbfounded, unable to believe what her ears had just heard. She scarcely found the wit to say, "I beg your pardon?"

Martin repeated himself patiently and added, "I understand why you might be surprised, Miss Wilkes. After all, it isn't every day a young woman with no prior acting experience is invited to play a principal part in a motion picture opposite a famous star of stage and screen."

Unable to think of anything to say, Amy nodded.

"Mr. Huxtable would like you to act as his leading lady in the Peerless Studio's next production." Martin smiled pleasantly. "It's an ambitious prospect. Four whole reels, and it will take probably three weeks or more to shoot."

This was another surprise for Amy, because Martin's time scheme contradicted articles she'd read in newspapers and periodicals. She blurted out, "I thought people made moving pictures in a day or two."

Martin shook his head. "Not this one. This one's big. Mr. Lovejoy is counting on it to secure the studio's reputation. After this one is seen, when the public thinks of moving pictures, they'll think Vitagraph, Biograph, and Peerless, and of the three, only Peerless will be out here on the West Coast, where the sun shines year-round and pictures can be made in the dead of winter if they need to be."

"Oh."

Warming to his theme, Martin went on, "This picture will be what we're calling a 'feature.' It's a new term, and it's going to take off like wildfire. Folks will flock to theaters to see featured motion pictures along with a one-reel short or two."

"Theaters?" Amy's voice had dropped and was very small.

Martin nodded. "Oh, yes. Folks are building special theaters for moving pictures these days."

"Oh."

Amy noticed that Martin's eyes sparkled, and she thought it was nice that he enjoyed his work. But--act in a movie? Amy Wilkes? From Pasadena, California? She couldn't imagine herself doing anything so--so--so--bizarre. Amy craved continuity, not out-of-the-wayness

She also couldn't feature her young gentleman banker friend Vernon Catesby, who had been paying her particular attentions of late, approving of this venture. She didn't approve herself, if it came to that.

Martin went on. "It's a western picture, and it'll be called One and Only. Cowboys are very popular these days."

"One and Only," Amy said dully. "But why me?"

"Why not you?" He gave her a charming smile that Amy would bet a dozen of her uncle's oranges he'd practiced in front of a mirror, rather as Mr. Huxtable had practiced his sneer. "You're a lovely young woman. This will be a tremendous opportunity for you."

Glancing through the window to the patio, Amy spotted Horace Huxtable still there, the only inmate remaining outdoors, sprawled, glaring gloomily at his empty orange-juice glass. "What kind of opportunity?"

"Why, to get in on the ground floor of a brand-new venture, to make money doing something enjoyable, and to see a little of the way in which motion pictures are made. Most of the industry is still located back east with Mr. Edison, but the Peerless Studio is at the forefront of western production."

"Oh."

"Absolutely! Why, simply take a look around. We here in Southern California have wonderful weather and grand locations. The sun shines everywhere, all the time! Especially now, when the public fascination with cowboys is at its peak, why should movies be filmed in New York? It makes no sense."

"Oh."

"So, you see, you'll be getting in at the beginning of a major innovation in a brand-new industry! And if you do well, you'll certainly get more work. You might even catch the public's fancy and become a star. There are monumental opportunities for money and fame in the movie business, Miss Wilkes."

Mercy sakes, wouldn't Vernon pitch a fit if Amy became a famous motion-picture actress?

She shook her head to dislodge the notion. This was getting silly. She sat up straight and frowned slightly. "I've never been interested in fame, Mr. Tafft. I think it would be awful to be recognized by strangers on the street. And I don't want to make money if it means sacrificing my morals."

"Sacrificing your morals?" Martin Tafft looked positively shocked.

Amy, feeling uncomfortable, said, "Well, I've read things."

"Tosh. Miss Wilkes, the articles you've read have painted a faulty picture, if that's what you think. Why, the movies are supremely moral!"

"They are?"

"They are. Why, they're going to break down barriers between nations!"

"They are?"

"Absolutely! They're going to help us understand that we're all part of God's family. Nations will be able to view the way people in other nations live. They'll come to understand that people are alike the world over."

"Mercy."

"Pictures are marvelous! They're entertainment for the entire family. They promote community values and family togetherness."

"They do?"

"Of course! Why, fathers will be going to the movies with their families on Sunday afternoons instead of heading into pool palaces and gin mills! Pictures will be the salvation of our great country!"

"I--ah--hadn't heard that." She would, however, keep these arguments in mind should she need them when discussing this opportunity with Vernon.

Martin huffed. "You never need fear for the moral tone of a Peerless picture, Miss Wilkes. In fact, do you realize that when Peerless made a moving picture of The Scarlet Letter, Mr. Lovejoy made sure that Hester and Mr. Dimmesdale were married?"

Amy blinked, trying to take it in. "But--what was the story about, if they were a married couple? I mean, wasn't the whole plot--" She broke off, embarrassed to be talking about illegitimate children, adultery, and so forth with a stranger.

Martin waved her question away. "But, you see, don't you, that Peerless deals in nothing but material of the highest moral caliber."

Again peering through the window and taking in the spectacle of Horace Huxtable slouched at his table, Amy shook her head. "I'm sure Mr. Lovejoy's morals are of the highest caliber, but I don't care to be corrupted by anyone whose morals don't match his."

Martin glanced at Huxtable, too, and sighed. "Of course you don't. Believe me, I'll see that nothing bad happens to you. We even have matrons to assist our actresses on the set."

"What's a set?"

He looked at her blankly for a moment. Amy might have been embarrassed by her ignorance except that she perceived this opportunity as too serious to gloss over. She needed to know everything in order to make an informed decision. Her future might depend upon her choice.

"The set is where the picture will be shot."

She squinted at him. "I'm afraid I still don't understand, Mr. Tafft. Don't you just set up a camera somewhere and paint a backdrop or something? As they do in the theater?"

His expression held a little condescension. Amy opted to overlook it for the moment in favor of gathering information. "Not any longer, Miss Wilkes. Not for this picture. The days of shooting moving pictures just any old where are gone for good. The public is demanding realism nowadays, and Peerless is going to give it to them with One and Only. That's why Peerless is setting up out here in California. Whoever heard of a cowboy in New York?"

He chuckled, but Amy didn't get the joke.

After clearing his throat, he went on. "One of my jobs is to scout out suitable locations. One and Only will be filmed not too far from here, in the desert outside a small community called El Monte."

She nodded. She knew El Monte; had even been there once. It was way out in the country and was full of cows. People grew an assortment of agricultural crops there as well. The rest of it was, well, desert. It was, in her limited experience, at the end of the earth.

Martin continued. "There are hundreds of movies being made every year now, and opportunities are better than ever for an ambitious young person to earn a good deal of money. Ever since The Great Train Robbery, the industry has taken off like a frightened rabbit."

An apt metaphor. Amy said with great reserve, "Thus far, I haven't found my association with moving-picture folks a particularly happy one, Mr. Tafft."

She saw him heave another sigh. "Has Huxtable been a trial for you?"

"Yes." Although Amy was generally the most polite and well-bred of young women, she saw no need to mince matters at present. "He's been perfectly awful."

"Well, but look here, Miss Wilkes, the rest of the cast is nice. The man who's been hired to play the love triangle interest is a real cowboy, and he's as polite and shy as anything."

"He is, is he?"

Martin nodded. "And think of the money. Where else can you earn so much by doing so little? And remember, you don't need to stay in the pictures forever. You can save your money and set yourself up anywhere. This is an opportunity that isn't offered to just anyone."

Having been brought up by relatives with strict ethical principles and old-fashioned ideals, Amy sniffed at that. "Making money for doing very little is not what I think of as suitable employment for an industrious, honest, hard-working young woman, Mr. Tafft."

He lifted his hands as if her starchy attitude was getting the better of him. "So, you can work harder on the set if you want to. For heaven's sake, Miss Wilkes, we need you!"

She didn't like the turn this conversation was taking. Any time a person said he needed her, her immediate reaction was to leap in and help that person out. "Surely there must be other young women available to act the role."

He shook his head emphatically. "You're the one. You're the only one. The one and only, in fact." Martin smiled, pleased with this play on the title of the picture. "You fit the description of the heroine to a T."

Amy remained unimpressed. "Well . . . I'll have to discuss the matter with my aunt and uncle." And Vernon. She didn't mention him to Mr. Tafft. "They were kind enough to take me in and give me a position here at the Orange Rest when my parents passed on."

"I see." Martin paused to think for a minute. "There's another point right there," he said. "If you, a young woman alone in the world, has to make her own living, the movies are a good place to do it. As I've said over and over again, there's good money in the pictures."

"From all I've heard, there's a lot more than money in them," she said acidly. She read the newspapers and the magazines. She knew what shenanigans and scrapes some picture people got themselves in to. Although, she had to admit, it would be pleasant to know she had money of her own tucked away in case of an emergency.

Martin evidently deduced what she was thinking because he repeated, "Believe me, Miss Wilkes, it's only a very small proportion of the motion picture community that misbehaves. Most of them are fine, upstanding people."

Amy's glance slid over to Huxtable and back to Martin, who shrugged helplessly. "He's really not so bad. Honestly. He overindulges sometimes, is all."

"Hmmm."

Nevertheless, Amy talked to Vernon Catesby about the opportunity when he paid a call upon her later in the afternoon. Vernon frowned. The expression was not unfamiliar to Amy, who heaved a silent, internal sigh. She was fond of Vernon, in a way, and she fully expected to marry him one day. He was dependable, sensible, and could offer her more security than anyone else in her present orbit. She could not, however, repress a tiny twinge of boredom every time she was in his company.

"I don't like it," he said flatly. "Motion pictures may be a way to make fast money, but you know very well that the morals of those people are suspect. Why, actors have been on the lowest echelon of society for hundreds of years."

"Mr. Tafft seemed quite pleasant and not at all immoral," Amy said, feeling suddenly stifled by Vernon's attitude.

Vernon shook his head. "I fear I must forbid you to do this thing, Amy. It's ludicrous and completely inappropriate."

Amy squinted at him. She would never go so far as to announce to Vernon that he had no right to forbid her to do anything, but she didn't care for his tone. Or his words. "We'll see," she said in a voice that sounded more chilly than usual. "I shall speak to Aunt Julia and Uncle Frank about it.

Vernon's bloodless lips compressed and his thin, patrician features registered censure. Amy offered him orange juice and lemon bars to sweeten him up, and he was smiling again by the time he left.

When she spoke to her aunt and uncle later in the day, both of them were more eager for her to have this chance than she was.

"Just think, dear, your face will be up there on the screen in a picture palace! My niece!" Her aunt Julia clasped her hands to her bosom and beamed at her. "Oh, it's so exciting!"

"Sounds all right to me," her uncle Frank said with less enthusiasm, but no apparent misgivings. "You have to admit the money's swell."

Swell. Good heavens, Amy hadn't even started her career as an actress yet, and already her family's vocabulary was being corrupted. "Mr. Tafft says they'll want to change my name."

Her aunt looked puzzled. "Whatever for?"

She shrugged. "He says Amy might not be sophisticated enough for the movies."

"But," he aunt said, "they don't have the names of the players printed anywhere on the screen, do they?"

Amy was prepared for this question, and was pleased she'd asked Martin about it. "No, but interested members of the public sometimes writes to the studios or to Motion Picture Story magazine, and they'll give out the names."

Both her aunt and uncle pondered this information for a moment or two. Finally her uncle said, "That actually might not be a bad idea. After all, you don't want everybody in the world to know your real name, do you?"

Gracious sakes. If even her easygoing uncle was ashamed of her possible association with the moving pictures, Amy didn't want anything to do with them herself.

Her aunt spoke next. "That's nonsense, Frank. I think it's a wonderful opportunity for Amy. It's the best way I can think of for her to gain some experience of the world--" She stopped speaking suddenly and looked worriedly at her niece. "There will be some kind of protection for you, won't there? I mean, the ladies and gentlemen in the picture won't mix socially, will they?"

With a touch of irony, Amy said, "Mr. Tafft said there are matrons and guards and so forth on all picture sets. I guess they need them to keep curiosity seekers away. And to protect the cast."

"Well, then," her aunt said with renewed enthusiasm. "I think you should do it."

After several more moments of deep thought, and after considering Vernon's objections and her aunt's excitement, Amy gave up her arguments. As Mr. Tafft had said, if she didn't like it, she never had to do it again--and the money was awfully good. "Very well. I'll give it a try."

Her aunt was ecstatic.

Her uncle was pleased.

Vernon was disgusted.

Martin was elated.

Huxtable immediately began plotting her seduction.