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ILLUSTRATED BY HELEN E. HOKINSON
Invasion in the film colony! Objective: The kitchens of the stars
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Our world-renowned society expert makes a preposterous diagnosis of a new Hollywood epidemic. Have YOU ever had "relentless domesticity"?
BY ELSA MAXWELL
FORTUNATELY for me, still more fortunately for my Hollywood friends, I do not write a daily gossip column. Heaven alone knows to what far-reaching and thoroughly wild conclusions I would have jumped by now had I to turn out so many words seven times a week. Even as it is, I suspect that Hollywood is a town where one makes acquaintances and loses friends but were I to conduct a column . . . The very thought makes me shudder.
Take for instance the case of Constance Bennett. While working in my first picture, I was staying in Connie's house. I was enjoying both her hospitality and her company hugely but I could not help wondering why practically every evening she would suddenly disappear, lock herself up in her room and not show up again for an hour or so. Now had I been a Winchell, a Sullivan or a Fidler, I would have been in duty bound to report to my readers that something was "on." Something was on. The glamorous, the bewitching, the ever-so-romantic Miss Bennett was spending those mysterious evening hours . . . knitting a red sweater which she presented to me on the occasion of my birthday. She could have bought a sweater for me in a downtown shop — although not every shop in Los Angeles would be likely to have on hand a sweater of that size — but she wanted to prove to me that when it came to knitting she bowed to no housewife.
The other one whose sudden disappearances used to puzzle me quite a bit is Virginia Zanuck. Early every afternoon she would order her car