CHAPTER VIII

THE SYNOPSIS OF THE PLOT

The synopsis is a brief--a clear, orderly outline--of the plot of your story. However, before considering the preparation of the synopsis, one important element must be considered:

_1. What Constitutes a Plot_[11]

_A fictional or a dramatic plot is the working plan by which the story is made to lead up to the crisis (or complication, or cross-roads of choice), and then swiftly down to the outcome (or unfolding of the mystery, or untying of the knot, or result of the choice)._

[Footnote 11: The student is advised to read _The Plot of the Short Story_, Henry Albert Phillips; and the chapters on plot in the following treatises: _The Short Story_, Evelyn May Albright; _The Contemporary Short Story_, Harry T. Baker; _A Handbook on Story Writing_, Blanche Colton Williams; _Short Stories in the Making_, Robert Wilson Neal; _The Art of Story Writing_, Esenwein and Chambers; and _Writing the Short-Story_, J. Berg Esenwein.]

There can be no real plot without a complication whose explanation is worked out as the story draws to its close. A mere chain of happenings which do not involve some change or threatened change in the character, the welfare, the destinies of the leading "people," would not form a plot. Jack goes to college, studies hard, makes the football team, enjoys the companionship of his classmates, indulges in a few pranks, and returns home--there is no plot here, though there is plenty of plot _material_. But send Jack to college, and have him there find an old enemy, and at once a struggle begins. This gives us a complication, a "mix-up," a crisis; and the working out of that struggle constitutes the plot.

So all dramatic and all fictional plots give the idea of a struggle, more or less definitely set forth. The struggle need not be bodily; it may take place mentally between two people--even between the forces of good and evil in the soul of an individual. The _importance_ of the struggle, the _clearness_ with which it is shown to the spectator, and the sympathetic or even the horrified _fascination_ which it arouses in him, have all to do with its effectiveness as a plot--note the three italicized words.

_2. Elements of Plot_

Dividing the subject roughly, in this brief discussion, three important elements of plot deserve consideration:

_(a) The preliminaries_ must be natural, interesting, fresh, and vivid. That is, they must not seem manufactured. It is all well enough to say that Jack has made an enemy at College, but _how_ did the enmity arise? The young men will not become opponents merely to suit the photoplaywright. You must think out some natural, interesting, fresh, and vivid cause for the antagonism. Such a logical basis for

## action is called _motivation_. And so with all the preliminaries on

which your plot is based--they must motivate what follows. Remember that forces or persons outside the two characters may lead them to quarrel. Swiftly but carefully lay your foundations (mostly out of sight, in the manner of a good builder) so that your building may be solid and steady--so that your story may not fall because the groundwork of the plot does not appeal to the spectator as being _natural, convincing, interesting, fresh, and vivid_; these words bear reiteration.

_(b) The complication_, or struggle, including all its immediately surrounding events, must be (usually) surprising, of deep concern to the chief character, and arouse the anxiety of the spectator as to how the hero will overcome the obstacles. Jack discovers that the girl he has just learned to love is the well-loved sister of his college enemy. How will this complication work out? An interesting series of movements and counter-movements immediately becomes possible, and any number of amusing or pathetic circumstances may arise to bring about the denouement--which simply means the untying of the knot.

The struggle in a plot may be either comical or tragic. Mr. Botts ludicrously fights against a black-hand enemy--who proves to be his mischievous small son. Plump and fussy Mrs. Jellifer lays deep but always transparent plans to outwit her daughter's suitor and is finally entrapped into so laughable a situation that she yields gracefully in the end.

And so on indefinitely. Hamlet wars against his hesitating nature. Macbeth struggles with his conscience that reincarnates the murdered Banquo. Sentimental Tommy fights his own play-actor character. Tito Melema goes down beneath the weight of his accumulated insincerities. Sometimes light shines in the end, sometimes the hero wins only to die. To be sure, these struggles suggest merely a single idea, whereas plots often become very elaborate and contain even sub-plots, counter-plots, and added complications of all sorts. But the basis is the same, and always in some form _struggle_ pervades the drama; always this struggle ranges the subordinate characters for or against protagonist and antagonist, and the outcome is vitally part and substance of all that goes before--the end was sown when the seeds of the beginning were planted. This touches upon the third element:

_(c) The Denouement_, or disclosure of the plot just before its close, is one of its most vital parts.

"Novelty and interest in the situations throughout the story, with an _increasing_ interest in the denouement, are the essential demands of a plot."[12]

[Footnote 12: Evelyn May Albright, _The Short Story_.]

It goes without saying that you must interest your audience, but you must also satisfy them--gratify the curiosity you have earlier aroused. It is all very well to write an "absorbing" story, in which the excitement and expectation are sustained up to the very last scene, but be sure that the theme is essentially such that _in_ the last scenes, if not before, your action will unravel the knot that has become so tantalizingly tangled as the play proceeded. No matter how promising a theme may be in other respects, it is foredoomed to failure if from it comes a plot of which the spectator will say as he goes out, "It was a pretty picture--but I couldn't understand the ending."

Another thing: If it is important that, in every case, the spectators must be "shown" what happens in the working out of a plot, it is equally important that they be shown _why_ it happens. This also has to do with sound and comprehensible motivation. "It is not so much a case of 'show me,' with the average American, as a common recognition that there must be a reason for the existence of everything created. He is inclined to give every play a fair show, will sit patiently through a lot of straining for effect, if there is a _raison d'être_ in the summing up, but his mode of thought, and it belongs to the constitution of the race, is that of getting at some truth by venturesome experiment or logical demonstration."[13]

[Footnote 13: Louis Reeves Harrison, in _The Moving Picture World_.]

Bear that truth in mind, no matter what you write of, and never start anything that you can't finish--which is simply one way of saying, do not start to write a story _at all_ until you have every scene, situation, and incident, so thoroughly planned, motivated and developed in your mind that when you come to write it out in action in the scenario you cannot help making the audience understand the plot. Never attempt to introduce even a single situation without a logical cause; be sure that "there's a reason."

"Break away from the old lines," advises Mr. Nehls, of the American Company. "Try to write scenarios that will hold the interest with a not too obvious ending, with sudden, unexpected changes in the trend of the story."

If the story contains a mystery, do not allow the end to be guessed too soon. Interest thrives on suspense and on expectation. The surprising thing, yet the natural ending, swiftly brought about, marks the climax of a good photoplay plot. Many a promising photoplay script has failed because it did not make good its prophecy. The plot opened well, but "petered out"--the complication was a good one, but the unfolding of the mystery, the result of the struggle, the aftermath of the choice, were disappointing.

And one final word in this connection: The _photoplay public loves a "happy ending"--unless it must be forced_.

_3. The Study of Plot-Structure_

A careful study of fictional and dramatic plot will well repay the photoplaywright. But little more can be said here on the technique of plot, though it deserves a treatise in itself; but much will be gained if these few words are taken seriously, and no stories are submitted except those revolving about ORIGINAL, CLEAR-CUT, PLAUSIBLE SITUATIONS SHOWING THE LIVES OF HUMAN BEINGS IN THEIR HOUR OF CRISIS, AND WORKING OUT THE AFTER-RESULTS OF THAT CRISIS WITH LIVELY, DRAMATIC HUMAN INTEREST.

This advice applies even to humor, for humor takes things which are ordinarily serious and by introducing the incongruous makes them laughable. It is the sudden interruption of smooth going, the unexpected shifting of the factors in the problem, the new and surprising condition of affairs, the swift disappointment--it is any of these in countless variety that makes plot possible.

Learn to invent plots. Invent them wholesale--by day, by night. Turn the facts of everyday life into plots. Draw them from jests, from tragedies, from newspapers, from books, from your own heart--and don't omit the heart, whatever else you do omit. At first, invent merely complications; later work out the situation entire. Thus you will cultivate an inventive attitude and at least _some_ good plots are sure to result.

_4. Preparation of the Synopsis_

The synopsis of the plot is the first part of the script to be read by the editor, for from it he decides whether the whole script is worth reading further. For this reason, even were there no other, the importance of the synopsis should need no argument. Besides, many companies now are willing to consider "synopsis only."

The _final_ preparation of the synopsis should be the last stroke in the completion of the script. We emphasize "final" because, as has been briefly pointed out in a previous chapter, the writer should at the very outstart draft a rough, or working, synopsis, to be used as a guide while working out the various scenes in his scenario.

The reasons for reserving the synopsis for improving and polishing at the very end of the writing may easily be understood. Suppose an author were to write the complete synopsis of his story first, and then in writing his scenario follow that synopsis rigidly, adding no scene not indicated in it, introducing no character that it does not mention, and otherwise being bound by his earlier work. He might indeed produce a good scenario, but would it be quite as good as it might have been had he allowed himself a freer rein in working it out? Might there not have been a scene or two added that would have aided materially in making every little detail of his plot clear to the spectators?

Again, a writer will frequently find, when working out his scenario, that he can improve his story by transposing some of the scenes as originally planned. In fact, there are a dozen ways in which the story may be altered for the better while in course of construction. Why, then, should the author hamper himself by obstinately adhering to his original plan or synopsis of it? In photoplay writing an author should not promise himself never to change his mind.

An experience of a certain writer will serve to illustrate the impracticability of writing the final form of the synopsis first. A few years ago, when all editors were asking for the complete script, and when most companies were insisting upon a synopsis of approximately two hundred and fifty words, the editor of a company for which he writes suggested that, instead of preparing the complete script before submitting it, the author should merely write out his synopsis in the usual way and send that in. If the synopsis was satisfactory, his being told to go ahead and finish the script would mean that the story was as good as purchased. Appreciating this kindness, three synopses were submitted by the writer, and two of them accepted; the third was for certain reasons unavailable. It was necessary, then, to write out and send in the scenarios for the two satisfactory synopses, and the author started in. Notwithstanding that the firm in question places no restriction on the number of words in the synopsis of scripts submitted to them, and that this author, for that reason, seldom sent in, even in those days, a synopsis of less than a thousand words, giving the theme and details of the plot, he found that in working out the scenarios of both stories the original plots could be improved, strengthened, given a more decided "punch," by making some changes. In one, he added a character and transposed several scenes, thereby strengthening the whole plot. In the other, elimination of two scenes of minor importance made it possible for the director to give more footage to a big scene. These changes being made in the scenarios, the original synopses could not be used. It was therefore necessary to write two new ones which corresponded with the scenarios that went with them. Thus the original synopses of the two accepted stories really amounted to nothing more than working, or first-draft, synopses.

5. _Length of the Synopsis_

How many words should be allowed for the writing of a synopsis still remains a matter of opinion. Almost every writer wishes that he could use, within reason, an unlimited number. The acceptance or rejection of the script depends so almost entirely upon the interest the editor takes in the synopsis, that it unjustly hampers a writer to be limited in the number of words he may use. This is peculiarly true if the plot should happen to be one that requires the explanation of several minor, yet important, details of the story. And even though you are sending to a company that asks for the complete script, you must bear in mind that some editors base their decisions wholly upon what they get from the synopsis.

On the other hand, more scripts suffer from having the synopses loosely and wordily written than from being over-compressed. The young writer especially cannot be too careful in drilling himself in the art of clear-cut, concise, yet effective expression. To be able to tell a story in outline, using few but vivid words, is an art worth cultivating.

However, now that the market has expanded from one to five, and even more, reels, the limit of words is not so closely drawn. Indeed, today, whether the studio is one that asks for the complete script or insists upon examining the synopsis only, you may almost feel safe in sending in a synopsis containing _just as many words as are really needed_--which means, simply, that the editor's first consideration is to be able to "get" your whole story from one reading of your synopsis, whatever its length. It _should_ be concise; it _must_ be clear and readily understandable. A busy editor has no time to waste in re-reading certain paragraphs or even sentences the meaning of which is obscure. One of the first things to remember is that certain companies send out the call for "synopsis only" because they prefer to have their staff writers do the continuity of scenes (write the scenario), instead of accepting the scenario prepared by the author and upon occasion, altering it in the studio to suit their special requirements. Why so many concerns prefer to do this is easily understood. Instead of cutting up the originally submitted scenario and substituting different settings or locations, and perhaps, even, different large and difficult-to-obtain "props," they simply provide the staff writer with the synopsis of the story purchased from you, and tell him to go ahead and prepare the continuity, knowing as he does, and keeping in mind while at work, to just what approximate expense the company is prepared to go, just what sets are available or can be built, what necessary locations can be reached within a reasonable time, and what players--especially if they must be distinctive types--are in the company or may be readily engaged. These, of course, are matters over which the outside writer can have no control; if he is selling to a concern that demands the synopsis only, he must make up for what he does not know about the inside workings of the studio by giving the editor and (especially) the staff writer _every needed detail_ of his plot. Only by so doing can he feel sure of eventually seeing the story on the screen in the form of an artistic and satisfactory working out of his original idea.

Some companies that request the synopsis only also like the writer to submit two synopses. The first, for the special benefit of the editor, and _shorter_ than the two-hundred-and-fifty-word synopsis of a few years ago, is intended to show the editor or his reader almost at a glance if the story is what that particular company could use at all. The second synopsis, of course, is the longer and more detailed one from which both he and the staff man can get _all_ the necessary details if your story is purchased. By reading the market departments of such magazines as _The Writer's Monthly_, and the various trade journals, you can keep posted as to which concerns like this double synopsis. For your own good, always observe the rule if the company lays it down, and remember that it is an easy matter to make a brief synopsis from the longer one already prepared.

Again, while it is also necessary to observe strictly the rule of sending the "synopsis only" to companies that demand it, one of the present writers has found that many firms welcome the author's continuity, _after the story has been purchased on the strength of its synopsis_, for the sake of the finer details of action and the technical and mechanical suggestions contained in it, and even though they use it merely as an additional aid to the staff writer in preparing _his_ continuity. Such a company, of course, merely gives the writer a courteous "thank you" for his continuity, as contrasted with those that pay a certain amount for the synopsis and, usually, double that amount if the scenario also is _called for_; but the earnest writer has the satisfaction of knowing that, with the additional details supplied in the scenario, or continuity, the staff writer stands an even better chance of perfectly preparing the blue print, as it were, of the story from which the director will work while building the photoplay.

These things being so, this writer works along the following lines: From a rough draft, or working synopsis, he prepares the complete scenario, just as he would do for a company that was having a story done to order. To this, in any case, must be attached a synopsis. He therefore writes a very complete, detailed synopsis, preparing it in the manner which will presently be described. In addition, it is a very simple matter to write a synopsis of from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty words, according to the story, and have it ready in case he finds it advisable to submit to a "two synopses requested" concern.

Now, whether the company is or is not one of those that will accept the author's own continuity as an additional guide for the staff writer, if it is a concern that asks for a complete, detailed synopsis, this writer sends in what he has more than once humorously termed a "camouflaged continuity." He does not, so to speak, send in the "plot of action"--the full continuity--with the technical directions and scene numbers left out, but a genuine, specially-written synopsis, in proper narrative form. However, it is written _directly from_ his own complete, detailed continuity, and the action, though in narrative form, is made to run along exactly as it does in the continuity. This, it may be said, is almost the same process which was followed by writers a few years ago, when complete scripts were first in demand, and which we advocate earlier in the present chapter. But you must bear in mind that the method here outlined is used _in connection with_ the writing of a synopsis of from three thousand to six thousand words, or even more, if really necessary, as contrasted with the two-hundred-and-fifty-word synopsis generally demanded a few years ago. Furthermore, the synopsis is written in such a way that anyone could separate this writer's sentences and paragraphs by drawing a lead pencil between the lines, thus dividing it into almost the exact number of scenes, with the same continuity of action as shown in the scenario. The minor details of

## action are omitted, of course, and there are little side remarks

written in, in connection with characterization, etc., which would be out of place in the scenario.

As for its mechanical preparation, this synopsis is double spaced, with a left-hand margin of one and one-half inches. As the story runs on, many statements are made which give the staff writer an opportunity to use a leader (sub-title) at that point if he wishes to; but if in his own scenario the writer whose practice we are quoting has a number of leaders (frequently ordinary statement, or before-the-scene, sub-titles, but usually cut-in, or dialogue, leaders) which he really feels are of special importance, and worded just right, they go into the synopsis _written in red_, and started in the left margin at "0," with double space both above and below them. In this way they stand out clearly and give the staff writer or the sub-title editor (if the firm employs someone to attend to that special work), a chance to pick them out quickly and decide whether or not he wishes to retain them. Even more important than the matter of keeping in the sub-titles after the picture has been produced is that of directing the action of the players when putting on the picture, so as to work directly up to the leader that fits into the action at a certain point. Knowing this fact, the writer gives the director help in the way just described; what necessary changes are made after the script has been sold is a matter over which no free-lance writer has any real control.

At the end of this chapter is reproduced a page from one of this same writer's synopses, illustrating just how far he usually goes in giving details of the action when writing a complete synopsis, and showing how the suggested inserts are separated from the narrative of plot. Let us repeat, however, that not all companies that ask for the detailed synopsis care to have also the scenario, even as a gift. This explains the introduction of little bits of detail and certain suggestions which ordinarily would have no place in the synopsis were it not that, in order to insure as fully as possible the proper interpretation of his story, the writer inserts them in this way for the benefit of both editor and--especially--staff writer.

The importance of trying to acquaint yourself with the preferences of the different editors as to the length of the synopsis should be apparent to any writer--although it is well to remember that editors change and studio rules change with them. For a feature-story of five reels or more you may have, say, from six to twelve typed pages--the length of the synopsis, of course, depending upon the nature of the story and the action it contains. You must be especially careful to ascertain the preferences of an editor who reads scripts for a star such as Douglas Fairbanks, because you know that a story prepared especially for his use (although not written to order) may not sell elsewhere if his company rejects it. However, regardless of its length, the object of the synopsis is to present a clear, interesting and comprehensive outline of the story--of what is worked out in

## action in the scenario, if you send one--and to give editor, staff

writer and director all the help you possibly can without for a moment making it appear that you are trying to teach them their business. This does not mean that if you know _your_ business you need hesitate to send in a scene-plot diagram as your suggestion for a certain important set, or supply historical or other needed data, or give your own idea of how best a certain effect can be obtained. All broad-minded and progressive directors are glad to receive such help. But do not attempt such suggestions until you have thoroughly mastered the technique of photoplay writing and have also seen on the screen many examples of how different effects have been procured in the past. It is not out of place to say now what is enlarged upon in a chapter to follow: The screen is, after all, the greatest of all schools for the would-be professional photoplaywright.

Here are some wise words from Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent, in _The Moving Picture World_:

"The successful seller of synopses first makes his story interesting, not through inflated literary style, but through clearness in the exploitation of idea. He makes his second point through the fullness of the _necessary_ detail. His third point is made through the omission of _unnecessary detail_. His last advantage is that he knows when to give scenes that are out of the ordinary and leaders that will be useful to the continuity writer. He undertakes to sell no more than an idea, and, selling an idea, he does not confound it with history nor expect the buyer to be a mind reader. That is the great trick in synopsis writing. Learn what to put in and what to leave out. Learn to tell what the continuity writer needs, and learn to omit the things that will suggest themselves to the imagination of any intelligent plot-handler."

_6. The Form of the Synopsis_

An examination of the scripts of some amateur photoplay authors shows that there is a frequent tendency to misunderstand the form in which the synopsis should be written. This may be due to the writer's being impressed with the necessity for not making his synopsis too long. At any rate, the examples we have in mind are written--the story is told--exactly as the scenario _should_ be written, only even more briefly and without being subdivided into numbered scenes. Thus, instead of writing: "Blake conceals himself behind a boulder and, as Tom is about to pass him, steps out and orders him to throw up his hands. He compels Tom to surrender his revolver and cartridge belt, hastening Tom's actions, when he momentarily hesitates, by firing a shot close to his head;" the writer may say: "Blake sees Tom approaching up path. Hides behind boulder. As Tom is about to pass boulder, he is held up by Blake, who makes him strip off gun and cartridge belt. Tom too slow in actions, so Blake shoots past his head. Tom drops belt and gun on ground, etc." Obviously, the mistake consists in not writing the synopsis in narrative form.

It is well to note another point also. Although some manufacturers in preparing synopses of their stories for the trade journals write them in the past tense, it is always advisable to tell your story in the present tense. In the scenario, you _must_ follow this custom, and in the synopsis you _should_ do so.

In adding bits of characterization to your synopsis, and particularly in pointing out the dramatic incidents of your plot, consider the value of suggestive words and phrases. Not _many_ words, but words that suggest pictures, call up whole scenes, tell entire stories, are needed. And this is particularly true when you are writing to meet the "synopsis only" demand. Don't over-adjective your synopsis, but such qualifying words as you use should be vivid, clear and precise. One specific word outweighs a score of general statements. Consider the difference between "horse" and "broncho;" "house" and "bungalow;" "woman" and "sour spinster." Be definite.

A careful examination of any well-written synopsis will convince the novice that several rewritings are not too many to give to a synopsis before deciding that it is _clear, concise, and interesting_. Each of these points is well worth considering carefully. Interest, no one can teach you; conciseness may be attained only by cutting out needless words and _studying_ how to express the utmost in terse language; and clearness is surely equally worthy of conscientious effort to master. A first-class rhetoric, like Genung's, or Hill's, will be of great value in acquiring conciseness and clearness of style, as well as other good qualities of expression. One point only is there time to dwell upon here: the lack of clearness arising from the careless use of personal pronouns. For example, compare the relative clearness in these two statements:

"In a moment of excitement, Harley strikes Jim a heavy blow. The whole thing dazes him, and he scarcely knows what to do. After a few hours, he determines upon revenge and, after taking his brother into his confidence, warns him that he will shoot him on sight, etc."

"In a moment of excitement, Harley strikes Jim a heavy blow. The whole affair dazes Jim, and he scarcely knows what to do. However, after a few hours, he determines upon revenge, and, after taking his brother Ted into his confidence, he warns Harley that he will shoot him on sight, etc."

In the following 248-word synopsis, we have a model of clearness, conciseness, and interesting statement. The same general form, applied to a longer synopsis, should satisfy any editor. For the second, or short, synopsis, demanded by certain companies, one of about this length, and as carefully prepared, would undoubtedly be entirely acceptable. Add to the conciseness and clearness of this Vitagraph synopsis the suggested inserts, leaders, etc., already described in connection with the synopses usually sent out by one of the present writers, and you have what comes pretty near to being the ideal form when the wishes of the editor, staff writer and director are all considered. You will find other synopses in chapters V and XX.

A WASTED SACRIFICE

_Produced by the Vitagraph Company_

With all his faults, Jack Martin, an Arizona gambler, has one redeeming quality, a deep love for his motherless child. The baby is taken sick. Leaving her with Aunt Jane, the Mexican housekeeper, Jack goes for Doctor Winton, who is also the sheriff. The child dies. Crazed with grief, Jack gets drunk and shoots the town Marshal. Leaping astride his horse, he escapes into the desert. Far out on a sandy plain, he comes across the dead body of a young Apache squaw, who has been bitten by a rattlesnake. By the side of the lifeless form he finds a child who has nursed from its mother's breast and imbibed the poison.[14] Jack thinks of his own child and his heart goes out to the little one. Jack has eluded his pursuers and his horse has dropped from exhaustion. He knows that he is free to escape. He hesitates, but determines to save the little papoose by doubling back on his tracks and meeting the posse, of which the doctor-sheriff is the leader. On rounding a curve in the canyon, he comes upon his followers, who cover him with their weapons. Holding out the child to the doctor, he begs him to do something for it. The sheriff examines it and discovers that it is dead. Jack, with tears in his eyes, stands ready for his capture, conscious that inasmuch as he did it for one of God's little ones, he has not done it in vain.

[Footnote 14: The scientific inaccuracy of this statement need not now be considered.]

Mr. Epes Winthrop Sargent has well epitomized some important principles in synopsis writing when--in _The Writer's Monthly_ for April, 1918--he says that "the good synopsis:

"Starts with a 'punch' fact.

"Tells the story clearly in full detail as to facts, with as few words as possible.

"Identifies as fully as possible all the leading characters at their first introduction.

"Fully establishes minor personages as they enter the story.

"Gives _all_ of the facts required by the staff writer in the construction of a continuity.

"Presents these facts fluently and interestingly, with some suggestion of literary charm, but without the use of florid phrase or elaborate descriptive writing.

"Presents facts in their logical order, but not necessarily in the exact order of their happening.

"Is as brief as is consistent with clearness of statement, but may run 5,000 words or more IF fewer words will not permit the story to be clearly told."

[Illustration: Paint Frame on Which Scenery is Painted]

[Illustration: Checking "Extras" Used in Rex Beach's Photodrama, "The Brand." Produced for Goldwyn at its Culver City Studios]

[Illustration:

The Man who Mocked - 2 -

Dear Dwight:

What do you say to a trip to Italy? Father is very anxious to continue his historical researches, especially in Rome and the Campagna. We'd be delighted to have you as one of our party. Run up to the house tonight and we'll talk it over.

As ever, Muriel.

Delafield cares nothing for the ruins and historical treasures of the Eternal City, but he is mightily interested in being near Muriel, and he leaves the house prepared to accept this invitation.

As he comes down the steps of his house to enter his car, an old blind man, led by a little dog on a cord, shuffles along and collides with him. Delafield steps back, pushing the man from him, who, as if fearing a blow, raises his arms to guard against it and then hurries on, while Delafield, sneering as he watches him, steps into his car and drives off.

At the Trevor's, he is shown into the library, where Muriel and her father are sitting in earnest conversation. They rise to greet him, the professor shaking his hand warmly. When Muriel goes to him, Delafield takes her left hand in his (close-up), and with his right index finger touches the engagement ring on her finger and then points to himself, thus indicating that he already looks upon her as his property, albeit he plainly shows his genuine regard for her. She presently picks up the book to which she and her father have been referring before Delafield's entrance and shows it to him, saying:

"FATHER AND I HAVE BEEN DISCUSSING THE THEORY OF REINCARNATION"

At which Delafield smiles good-naturedly, but plainly shows that he considers the theory so much rubbish, answering:

"WHILE I'M ALIVE, THAT SORT OF THING DOESN'T INTEREST ME; AND WHEN I'M DEAD, IT WON'T MATTER"

The professor is plainly disappointed by this speech, but he passes it off with a smile, answering:

"ONE HAS TO DIE, MY DEAR FELLOW, TO FIND OUT THAT IT _DOES_ MATTER"

The truth of which remark is not apparent to Delafield until some time later. He smiles at the professor's earnestness, which Muriel quite evidently shares, and is about to speak to the girl again when her brother, Jack, enters. He is about twenty-two, clean-cut and jovial, and he greets Delafield heartily, at the same time asking his father:]

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