"Pitter-patter little toes, that's the way the dancer goes; skillful hands and manners sleek--broken hearts and droll bezique." So twitters and is twitted, and Hollywood dissembles another vapidity as young as the world, trotting out the freshly dusted effigies of Eros as it cheers the hero on to freedom from the thralldom of his conceit.

Warren William, a veritable Thoth with a moustache, plays the part of a young man graced with personal at- traction, a propensity to love, and a desire to reach the heights on someone's else endeavors. He rambles through his part with a rhythmic ease that is restful to watch, now calling up a grimace, now elevating his voice, now twitching a finger or two. His is the center role, and he builds it up with a sort of vacillating adroitness--ever spurred on by vain ambition and pride, ever retarded by conceit and a weakness for cards--until the very shabbiness of the plot finally at the end wears through its dexterously constructed exterior, and the whole falls off into a gently exhilarating decline, both pleasing and agreeable.

Playing opposite him is Jean Muir in the part of a beautiful nurse, imbued with common sense and an instinct for decency. Like a well-manipulated puppet, she passively fits in with Mr. William's style, doing just the right thing at just the right time with an unremitting, process regularity that is perfectly in tune. She is the propelling force behind the plot; it is she who turns the action to its elevation of minded suspense and pessimistic hope; but this is all lost again in the triteness of the closing scenes. The supporting cast is, moreover, excellent.

"Wharf Angel," companion film, comes through with nothing more than a few good camera shots, a story which makes the theatre-goer hope that the end will not be the way that he is almost certain it is going to be, and a not unpleasant way of growing an hour older