Motion Picture Classic (Jul-Dec 1930)

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Th eMagtcLips tick! Tangce is Nature's loveliest color. For this is the magic of Tangee ... it changes on your lips and blends perfectly with your own natural coloring, whether you are fairest blonde, darkest brunette or titian red. For Tangee is like a lovely glow from within, a blush entirely without thickness or greasy smear . . . permanent, natural color which you cannot smear or rub away. Unlike other lipsticks, Tangce has a solidified cream base, one that soothes and protects. And it outlasts several of the usual lipsticks. Tangee Lipstick, Crime Rouge, Face Powder, Night Cream, Day Cream, each $1.00. Rouge Compact, 75*. Tangee Cosmetic, a new "mascara," will net smart, $1.00. SEND 20(? FOR TANGEE BEAUTY SET (Six items in miniature and "The Ait of Make-Up.") The George W. Lupt Co., Dept. M.P.C.-7 417 Fifth Avenue New York Name ■ ■ ■ Address ■ 86 The Most Romantic Moment of My Life (^Continued from page 27) to see Paris — just as I had. And here we were, both on our way, and with each other. Wasn't life wonderful? The last night aboard was at hand before we realized it. It was a magnificent, exciting evening and we talked of our plans as we walked around the ship. We would take the same train to Paris, of course. Then we'd spend a lot of time together there. It would be marvelous! But I missed the train at Cherbourg! She had come into my life like a dream — and when she was gone I completely forgot her. After I found that she was not aboard the same car with me, she became a dream again — gossamer. I began immediately to think of the Paris of music. I had lost the Paris of romance and I wasn't mourning the fact. I was happy in the thoughts of the girl I had left behind. My wife. Paris' Morning Glory THE first few days of Paris disappointed me vaguely. It was altogether too cosmopolitan, too bustling, too reminiscent of America. I had hoped for the Paris of the novelists — the city of a gay picturesque people. But it was a long time afterwards that I realized why I didn't find my Paris the first days of my stay. I had been tired with traveling and consequently had stayed in bed until the sun was overhead before venturing out on the crowded boulevards. But on the fourth day I decided that I would awaken early the next morning and take a stroll across the Seine and up the crooked old streets to Montmartre. I wanted to see the city spread out in the faint sunlight of a morning in Spring. But I never got as far as Montmartre. Too soon I was engrossed with the beauty of early morning in Paris. The dew still clung to each leaf along the quays and the whole city seemed washed and clean of its night of rioting pleasure. Every odor was of fresh flowers or newly gathered vegetables. Without realizing that I had stopped in my wanderings, I began to dawdle over the little book stalls along the way. It was a fortunate thing that Paris booksellers open their shops early — for if they hadn't, I should have missed my most romantic moment. A Memory Returns I WAS busily reading the titles on some of the old volumes, when all at once I heard a small voice behind me say, "Good morning." It was the voice of a memory, a memory returned. I dropped the book I had been holding in my hand (curiously enough, it was the memoirs of a lovely courtesan of the time of Louis XIV) and turned sharply around. It was Marilynne, looking just as sweet and romantic as she had only a few short days before. Without any further words, she laid her hand on my arm and we started off along the river toward the famous Eififel Tower, prominent in the blue distance. Romance is always that way, I suppose. It never begins — never continues — and never ceases. In those first few steps, we had lost sight of the fact that I had missed the train. It was enough that we were in Paris together, just as we had dreamed of being. Words weren't necessary. As we walked, we watched for interesting things to point out to one another. Once we stopped for a spray of powdery yellow mimosa from the south of France at one of the gay little flower stalls. (A Frenchman can go without bread, but not without flowers.) Once we were almost run downl a fleeting taxi — dangerous street crossin never entered our minds. Venders we calling their wares with lusty voices as 4 passed, and their cries sounded like songaij us. It was a beautiful setting on a beautn morning. A setting for romance. THEN before our eyes there suddeif was a sign — a very brilliant sign — whit told of an afternoon performance of" Louis* at the Opera Comique. I had stopped e suddenly that Marilynne was at a loss t understand. But in answer to her mai questions, I asked her one: would she 1 to spend the afternoon withme? "Louii — and. She smiled her reply. During the rest of the morning and eai afternoon, we walked into many strange' out-of-the-way parts of Paris. While wi walked, I told her the story of "Louise.' It was a quaint little story about two verj young people in the United States who had always dreamed of going to Paris. Thej were sweethearts and love was new to their and very romantic. They longed to sat Paris together as sweethearts. And they got their wish. They went to Pfiris whili they still were young. It is the sweeteati love story of all the light operas. As I unfolded the story to her, the setting became more and more romantic to us. She looked' upon our meeting as a sort of a fate — we were the boy and girl in "Louise." Living the Story AT last, curtain time arrived, and we in the cool darkness of the theat There wasn't much of a crowd. We were alone in our aisle and the rest of the lowi floor seemed taken up by other coupl very like ourselves. Boys and girls, gatheri to see their own romantic story told in son] The curtain rose. There before us stood a boy and a gi There we stood. And we sang of our longin desire to see Paris together. We were i another world. It seemed so real to us th we both imagined it was ourselves singin our love song to the world. A song romance. As the story progressed, the tw( lovers got their heart's desire of seein Paris. But hadn't we? Here we were i. Paris. The Paris of Romance! That we had been holding hands durini the whole performance didn't occur to ui until the finale. But as the curtain descend ed for the last time, we suddenly becami aware that we had been carried far awa'^ from ourselves. That we had been on thi stage — and that the story had been told^ Our romance had come and gone. Nothing was left for us. We sat for some time in the theater after everyone else had departed^ Not a word was spoken. Then we arose and walked slowly out of the theater. AS we said "good-bye" at the entrance, we knew tnat we should never see one another again. We parted as simply as two people ever said a last farewell. It was just "Good-bye, Marilynne," and "Good-bye, John." And I stood there and watched her walk away down the boulevard in the blue light of twilight. Romance had come to me, and now it was moving away. That intangible, fragile spark which had leapt into such a flame in the story of the opera and then flickered out at the first breath of cold disillusionment. And so ends the story of my most roman tic moment. It came like a dream, and went like one. lit!'