Like to see an advance
edition of it?"
"Love to," said Dyckman.
"Oh, Simpson, run that last picture through again," Ferriday called
through a little hole in the wall.
A faint "All right, sir" responded.
Kedzie led Dyckman to a chair and took the next one to it.
Ferriday beamed on them and switched on the dark. Then, as if by a
divine miracle, the screen at the end of the room became a world of
life and light. People were there, and places. Mountains were swung
into view and removed. Palaces were decreed and annulled. Fields
blossomed with flowers; ballrooms swirled; streets seethed.
Anita Adair was created luminous, seraphic, composed of light and
emotion. She came so near and so large that her very thoughts seemed
to be photographed. She drifted away; she smiled, danced, wept, and
made her human appeal with angelic eloquence.
Dyckman groaned with the very affliction of her charm. She pleased
him so fiercely that he swore about it. He cried out in the dark
that she was the blank-blankest little witch in the world. Then he
groveled in apology, as if his profanity had not been the ultimate
gallantry.
When the picture was finished he turned to Kedzie and said, "My God,
you're great!" He turned to Ferriday. "Isn't she, Mr.--Fenimore?"
"I think so," said Ferriday; "and the world will think so soon."
Kedzie shook her head. "I'm only a beginner. I don't know anything
at all."
"Why, you're a genius!" Dyckman exploded.
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