ness to a startling degree. No wonder he was trying for the films!

Ray was fumbling for cigarettes on the table. "Smoke, Sherry? Oh, no, of course you never did How about cocktails, Necia?"

Sherry was still holding her hand. "Old Ray did mighty well for himself," he voted. The voice was soft and possessive.

Smilingly she removed her hand and returned to the kitchen. With the three cocktails on a small silver tray she returned to the living room. Ray was awkward at what to talk about. She couldn't remember his being this way with other men. She helped:

"How did Empire hear about you, Sherry? I mean, did you have theatrical experience in Detroit? The studios send scouts everywhere."

The smooth white hand which grasped the stem of the cocktail glass was emblazened by a large

pigeon-blood ruby on the ring finger. It was synthetic but it gave fire and value to the young flesh. More than one girl must have laid awake in the night and thought about that hand.

He was answering her question. "Not a scout, no. Empire never heard of me till I bruised my knuckles on their famous door."

"I hope they were impressed. Have you seen the test?"

He took a swallow from the glass. "They liked my response to color photography. Had to admit it was tops. But they said I lacked heroic qualities. And my voice, it seems, is nice but juvenile." His eyes glinted resentfully as he took another swallow. "And oh yes! They said I had too much fat on the buttocks."

She heard Ray choke slightly on his drink. Her laughter carried the right note of sympathy. "What nonsense! You're not fat at all. What was the final verdict?"

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