Jean lifted her hands and looked at the soft little crest and beady eyes of the bird, to make sure that it was not disturbed by these strangers, before she gave her attention to the expostulating Mr.Burns.
"Did I spoil something ?" she inquired casually, and watched curiously the pulling of many feet of narrow film from the camera.
"About fifteen feet of good scene," Pete Lowry told her dryly, but with that queer, half smile twisting his lips.
Jean looked at him and decided that, save for the company he kept, which made of him a latent enemy, she might like that lean man in the red sweater who wore a pencil over one ear and was always smiling to himself about something.

But what she did was to cross her feet and murmur a sympathetic sentence to the little brown bird.

Inwardly she resented deeply this bold trespass of Robert Grant Burns; but she meant to guard against making herself ridiculous again.

She meant to be sure of her ground before she ordered them off.

The memory of her humiliation before the supposed rustlers was too vivid to risk a repetition of the experience.
"When you're thoroughly rested," said Robert Grant Burns, in the tone that would have shriveled the soul of one of his actors, "we'd like to make that scene over." "Thank you.