But he was confident a day would come.
On the same wall he faced also a series of photographs of himself.
These were stills to be one day shown to a director who would thereupon perceive his screen merits.

There was Merton in the natty belted coat, with his hair slicked back in the approved mode and a smile upon his face; a happy, careless college youth.

There was Merton in tennis flannels, his hair nicely disarranged, jauntily holding a borrowed racquet.

Here he was in a trench coat and the cap of a lieutenant, grim of face, the jaw set, holding a revolver upon someone unpictured; there in a wide-collared sport shirt lolling negligently upon a bench after a hard game of polo or something.

Again he appeared in evening dress, two straightened fingers resting against his left temple.