Photoplay (Jan - Jun 1931)

Just like one of Evelyn Brent's movie melodramas! The family pup utters weird growls in the middle of the night, so Fearless Betty takes a horse-pistol and goes out to investigate. The quaking lady in the rear is our correspondent She Eats and Tells/ AS nearly as I can remember, Harry Collins, one of Hollywood's distinguished dressmakers, was having the fall showing of his line of frocks and I had a couple of tickets. I asked Evelyn Brent — Betty to me and the rest of Hollywood— to go. She was working, so she said, "Come over and spend the week-end with me instead." I was a little confused myself and I couldn't recall that Emily Post had ever given such an answer to a fashion show invitation, but I've never been accused of turning down invitations. I packed my little black bag, and looking like a lady bootlegger, I arrived at the palatial mansion of La Brent and husband Mons. Harry Edwards, the director. I'm a pretty snappy kid. Always first with the latest, so I said, "Where's Harry?" "He's been over in London for a month," Betty said. "Don't you read the papers?" Well, I hung my head in what I laughingly call shame and followed the maid upstairs (she wasn't going to hide that $10.50 bag if I knew anything about it) and made myself fairly respectable. That's an amazing house. From the outside it looks enormous, like some ancient white palace, but, in reality, it is small and intimate inside. The upstairs consists only of a frivolous dressing room, all satin chairs and enormous perfume cabinet loaded with hundreds of bottles, a hall and big bath room and practical sleeping quarters, almost a sun porch, with twin beds and a long table arrangement where Betty has massages. Downstairs — spacious living room, dining room, breakfast nook, kitchen, bedroom and den. Betty had taken off her make-up and changed from her 40 Evelyn Brent invites our Katherine Albert for the week-end, and Katie ups and lets us in on what happened working clothes into a little dinner dress. I tried to act as if the sleeveless blouse of my suit was something you could wear in to dinner. It was Saturday night, so the Sunday papers were spread over the floor. Betty went to answer the 'phone and I stretched out on the divan to look at the papers. The divan is all gold velvet so I jumped up quickly when Betty came in. "That's all right," she said. "I haven't a piece of furniture here that you can't put your feet on or jump up and down on if you like. You see, before I married Harry I had just furnished an apartment of my own and I was pretty attached to everything so instead of getting rid of that we simply added more things and moved them all here. But I can't bear having anything you've got to be careful about. Furniture is to be used, isn't it? Well, then, use it." TT was funny, but right away I didn't want to jump on anything— maybe because I knew I could, you old psychologist. "I think a couple of people are coming for dinner," Betty announced. "They're grand people but they're always late and I'm hungry. Maybe I should call them." When she came back from the 'phone she said, "Well, it's all my own fault. They say I said I'd verify the date if I weren't working. Maybe I did. It's just like me. Lord, I'm starved." Betty does things well. Her table looked lovely (I wondered if she'd let me jump up and down on the stunning spread but decided not to ask her) and there is a warmth, a friendly sort of glow in the dining room. We had oyster cocktails, fried chicken, whipped potatoes, string [please turn to page 120]