Merton Gill hoped it had been nothing sterner.

For the first time in his screen career he became cynical about his art.

A thing of shame, of machinery, of subterfuge.

Nothing would be real, perhaps not even the art.
It is probable that lack of food conduced to this disparaging outlook; and he recovered presently, for he had been smitten with a quick vision of Beulah Baxter in one of her most daring exploits.

She, at least, was real.