He felt far above the audience that cackled at these dreadful buffooneries.

One subtitle read: "I hate to kill him--murder is so hard to explain." This sort of thing, he felt more than ever, degraded an art where earnest people were suffering and sacrificing in order to give the public something better and finer.

Had he not, himself, that very day, completed a perilous ordeal of suffering and sacrifice?
And he was asked to laugh at a cross--eyed man posing before a camera that fell to pieces when the lens was exposed, shattered, presumably, by the impact of the afflicted creature's image! This, surely, was not art such as Clifford Armytage was rapidly fitting himself, by trial and hardship, to confer upon the public.
It was with curiously conflicting emotions that he watched the ensuing Hazards of Hortense.

He had to remind himself that the slim little girl with the wistful eyes was not only not performing certain feats of daring that the film exposed, but that she was Mrs.Sigmund Rosenblatt and crazy about her husband.

Yet the magic had not wholly departed from this wronged heroine.