On the afternoon of Christmas Day he was still trying to get the secret out of her. They had the studio almost to themselves — only a skeleton staff of technical men dotted the walks and the commissary. They had exchanged Christmas presents. Pat gave her a five dollar bill, Helen bought him a white linen¹ handkerchief. Very well he could remember the day when many dozen such handkerchiefs had been his Christmas harvest.

The script was progressing at a snail’s pace but their friendship had considerably² ripened³. Her secret, he considered, was a very valuable asset, and he wondered how many careers had turned on just such an asset. Some, he felt sure, had been thus raised to affluence⁴. Why, it was almost as good as being in the family, and he pictured an imaginary conversation with Harry⁵ Gooddorf.

‘Harry, it’s this way. I don’t think my experience is being made use of. It’s the young squirts who ought to do the writing — I ought to do more supervising.’

‘Or —?’

‘Or else,’ said Pat firmly.

He was in the midst of his day dream when Harry Gooddorf unexpectedly walked in.

‘Merry Christmas, Pat,’ he said jovially⁶. His smile was less robust⁷ when he saw Helen, ‘Oh, hello Helen — didn’t know you and Pat had got together. I sent you a remembrance over to the script department.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

Harry turned swiftly to Pat.

‘The boss is on my neck,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to have a finished script Thursday.’

‘Well, here I am,’ said Pat. ‘You’ll have it. Did I ever fail you?’

‘Usually,’ said Harry. ‘Usually.’

He seemed about to add more when a call boy entered with an envelope and handed it to Helen Kagle — whereupon Harry turned and hurried out.

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