Photoplay (Sep 1928)

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I realized at once the color scheme I was presenting and apologized, but she laughingly passed it off, saying: “I shall have to get the painter to daub some blue and crimson lake on you to match the rest of our magenta!” A R ADAME GLYN has a tremendously keen ’ -*-sense of humor which never fails to get a “kick” out of the “lady-type” who, upon being introduced to her, says “Oh, my dear Madame Glyn! I have been waiting all my life to tell you about the terrible time I had reading ‘Three Weeks.’ I used to have to hide it under the mattress!” I suppose that particular brilliancy has been remarked to her some ten thousand or more times — enough to have lost its sparkle. I say, “No, No!” over the telephone a dozen times each day when I hear that purring, pseudo-aristocratic voice which could belong to none other than a photograph artist’s solicitor — that voice which so clearly drops its r’s from nine until five, and rolls them deliciously after hours. “Would I not like to drop in and have Signor Grandelstino photograph me?” No obligations whatsoever. Signor would be so charmed to make my acquaintance, Miss Yansomething-or-other (she to whom the sweet potato vocal cords belong) assures and assures and assures! They would be so delighted and enchanted to have the pleasure of “doing” me. One hates to admit being so verdant, but there was one time when I fell for the photographic idea. First time, of course. Y’ou see I’d promised a likeness to one of my old college profs and was just about to look up a photographer, so I was ripe for plucking. When I went to get my proofs, the Lady Receptionist asked me what day Madame Glyn would be ready to pose. When I said I had not yet spoken to her about the matter, the Office Queen automatically shortened her a’s. “I’m sorry then, but I can’t let you see your proofs. Y'ou know Signor is not in the social service game. Unless you wantta give us forty bucks.” T HID not. In that event I would choose my -t own photographer. As the receptionist would say in off hours, I had “loined” something. One of the most revealing experiences I ever bad took place in Hollywood. I had not lived in California long when I first became associated with Madame Glyn and everyone said, “What a gorgeous opportunity to get acquainted! You'll meet so many interesting people.” Of course I did. But they all wanted something. Ye Gods! When Madame was casting a picture, I had to interview about two hundred people a day and sort out a few for her to see (mostly actors and actresses) but most of them looked through me — not at me. One day a keen looking girl came into the office with a Miss K., a screen actress I knew. This girl, Helen Hall, we'll call her, was a beginner in pictures and anxious to get on, but she did not ask to meet Madame Glyn. nor did she appear to have any particular motive ex cept to meet me. This went down like aromatic castor oil with me. Miss K. had told her what a charming secretary Madame Glyn had, and bla-bla-bla — which went down better still, this being only natural, as I was getting rather fed up on being a motion picture adjunct. I was fearfully nice to the new girl and went out of my way to say I thought she really ought to try to see Madame who might like her type and give her a good part. But Helen Hall said “Oh no, you have enough people hounding you already! Really, I couldn’t impose myself on Madame Glyn, she is imposed upon enough already! ‘But what I would like is to have you come over to my house some evening. We have lots of informal little parties and I’d so love to have you meet some of my friends.” “What could be sweeter?” I thought. Here was a real girl. More like the girls from home. No climber — no grafter — no ulterior-motive expert — just a nice friendly, wholesome girl. Yes, I d adore to come. And a definite invitation led me to a charming house in the hills on the following Saturday evening. I shall never forget that nightmare night. As soon as I arrived I sensed something queer in the atmosphere, even the orchestra seemed to have a commercial twang. ■piRST I was introduced to a prosperously fat man who chose a waltz during which to tell me in ginny tones what gobs of money Madame Elinor Glyn could make if she’d just leave it to him to select some good old Los Angeles real estate for her. “And don’t forget it. girlie, l’d stick the old price up so as to take good care of you! If you'll arrange for me to meet the lady, that's all you need to do! This daddy’ll see that you're independent in a year from now!” That was his finale which left me breathless and dazed as Helen brought up quite an interesting-looking man who soon was well launched on the merits of the automobile business. He winked every few seconds as he talked. “Madame Glyn ought to have several of our cars,” he said with a significant look which caused me to miss a step of the fox trot. What kind of a place was I in anyway? I wondered. My partner left me in no doubt as to his intentions. If I could maneuver to “land the Madame’s business” as he delighted in calling it, I was to have a lesser roadster of my own providing, also, that I would be willing to be a “nice little pal” — whatever that might entail. HE was lonely — his wife was incompatible — (I thought it took two for that) — but be that as it may, I mentally resolved, now that I was in this mess, I might as well get all the information I could. I ventured to ask how he could afford so generous an offer. He rolled his black eyes all around the room and back to me and they seemed to get rounder with the rolling. Then he cleared his throat impressively and started on that old familiar rondo which any girl who’s ever been out on her own will recognize. I refer to the ditty which begins, “You know I feel as though I’d known you always!” — and which ends with something with a string on. His wife was a typical home woman — and he — well, he was a gay old dog. I had made a new creature of him when I walked into the room that night and it struck him we might be something — well — er — something more than mere business partners. I was at the point of choking and I was glad to be rescued, though it was only a moment until I was again being “approached.” During the remainder of the evening I suffered through three more lucrative proposi Every advertisement in PHOTOPLAY MAGAZINE is guaranteed.