At 7 P.M., on the evening of May 28, 1959, her fourth day in Hollywood, actress Connie Hines made a right turn against a red light in Beverly Hills.

"What," asked the courteous arresting officer, "is your name?"

"Connie Hines. And please, I've had a very long and hard day and if I'm wrong, then just give me the ticket and let me get home to bed."

"Oh?" said the officer. "What do you do?"

"I’m an actress.""Oh -------!" exclaimed the suddenly disgusted officer.

Shocked down to her Bostonian heels and affronted to the depths of her Bostonian soul, Miss Hines demanded to know what was so bad about being an actress.

"Honey," said the officer, "how long have you been in town?"

"Four days."

"Then if you don’t know it by now, you should turn around and go back wherever you came from – every B-girl in this town tries to pass herself off as an actress or a model."

Miss Hines burst into tears. "Do you mean to say," she cried, doubly affronted, "that you can’t look at me and tell I’m not a-a-a..."

"Baby," the officer interrupted, "I’ve booked sweeter-looking faces than yours. But go on home now. And watch the driving. Actresses don't cut much mustard around here."

Since that experience, Connie has appeared in some 30 TV films, finished two full seasons as Alan Young’s wife in Mister Ed and is still chin-high proud of the fact that she is an actress. "Let's get one thing straight right off the bat," she says. "I don’t knock Hollywood, I don’t knock working in a series, and I don’t knock other actors." (Her omission of Beverly Hills cops from the no-knock list may or may not be deliberate.)

"The part of Carol," she goes on, "is not the greatest part in the world. She’s pretty much of a one-dimensional character. And Ed is the star of the show. Without the horse – the gimmick – we'd be just another family-situation comedy. But it means a steady paycheck, it's given me a lot of good experience and it's made my name known. At least in the trade. When I get out of town, kids come up to me, all wide-eyed, and say, 'Do you mean you really know Mister Ed?' It's a great ego-deflator."

As Carol, Connie comes off as what the rather routine roll calls for – pleasant, unobtrusive, attractive just the necessary degree and with about as much depth as a Saltine cracker. Off-screen, however, a number of other qualities are surprising evident. The smile becomes flashing instead of insipid. The eyes are suddenly quite blue. Attractive freckles are in evidence. There is more of a passing resemblance, both in the eyes and in the machine gun-like way of talking, to Connie Stevens. And there is a sense of humor that makes her a pushover for a good new joke.

Now 26, Connie points with stubborn pride to her turn-of-the century actress grandmother, Augusta Ormonde; her trouping mother, Viola Gill; and her actor-drama-coach father, the late John E. Hines, who died when Connie was 15. "I was born in Dedham, about 10 miles outside of Boston," she says, "but Father never let the 'pahk the cah' accent get hold of me. He was a very sensitive, idealistic man. Mother was strong-willed but old-fashioned. She believed father should run things. She'd suggest something and he'd turn it over in his mind and say, 'Yes, I think that would be the thing to do,' and she'd say, 'I'm so glad you thought of it dear,' and then I'd say, 'But Mother you –' and she'd throw me a look and say, 'Quiet!'

"Connie appeared, as a youngster, in many of her father's stock-company plays. But at 17 she rebelled, was married and went off to Jacksonville, Fla., with her young insurance salesman husband. She did both radio and stage work there, joined a stock company in Miami and finally, minus her by-then-divorced husband, went to New York to study with the Helen Hayes Equity Group.

Her arrival in Hollywood was noteworthy, if only to herself and the Beverly Hills cop. Within four days she had found an apartment, rented a car, and landed a job in a Whirlybirds episode.

Helped considerably by two years' worth of Mister Ed paychecks, Connie now lives in a house (rented) high above the Sunset Strip. Dedicated to her work only when she is working ("An actor who is an actor 24 hours a day never has time to be a human being."), she is studying both voice and dancing, plays tennis, paints ("not terribly well") and reads.

Although Connie had been given to understand that the part of Carol would be bolstered this season, she is still very much aware of her secondary status on the show. She remembers the time Zsa Zsa Gabor, as a guest star, went through nine takes for a scene before finally getting it right, and then turned to the director, Arthur Lubin, and said disarmingly, "Dahling, I know it vas right but I really vasn’t chahming enough. Can't ve try it vunce more, dahling?" The beleaguered Lubin wearily okayed a 10th take – in which Miss Gabor was indeed not only right but more charming.

Several days later Connie wrapped up a scene on the fourth take and then swivel-hipped her way over to the director. "Dahling," she dahligned, "I don't feel I was chahming enough. Can't we try it once more, dahling?"

"You, my dear," said Lubin, with the air of a man dismissing a small-but-lovable child, "are billed below the horse."