Radio and television mirror (May-Oct 1940)

Is GRIT in your Face Powder stealing your Beauty?" WHAT DOTH it profit a girl to select the exact shade of powder for her skin, if that powder contains grit? What doth it profit her to apply that powder with care if, because of grit, she finds to her dismay that her skin has taken on a "flaky" or "powdery" look— a coarseness that makes her seem older? \et, amazing to relate, many of the most famous powders do contain grit, says Lady Esther! Impartial tests reveal grit in powders costing 504, $1.00, $2.00. But be your own judge! Make my famous "Bite Test." Take a pinch of your present powder between your teeth, then grind slowly. Don't be surprised if your teeth find grit! But they'll find no grit in Lady Esther Powder. . . one great reason why my powder clings 4 long hours. Put it on after dinner, say at 8 . . . and at midnight, it will still be flattering your skin! Wear my grit-free powder. . . in your most becoming shade. Mail me the coupon and I will send you all ten of my lovely shades. Find the one that is luckiest for you! (You can paste this on a penny postcard) Lady Esther, 7134, West 65th St., Chicago, 111. ■pu CC Please send me postpaid your iTlVlJijLjr 10 new shades of face powder, also a tube of your Four Purpose Face Out of Loneliness {Continued from page 32) Creana. Name (69) Address. City_ -State ? (^fy^^ ^•t'* '" Canada, write Lady Esther, Toronto, Ont.) 56 to mine. "You're defying me, aren't you? After what I said about Kit, you're deliberately trying to help her do what she wants — encouraging her foolish ambition. You don't care how J feel — you don't even care if your interference ruins Kit's whole life — " "Madge!" She began to cry, the tears welling up into her eyes and spilling over down her cheeks. "Why did you come back?" she sobbed. "I wish you hadn't. You deserted me when I was a child — you broke my father's heart and did something to me I can never get over. Doesn't all that satisfy you? Do you have to break Tom's heart now — and mine, all over again — and Kit's too?" I tried to put my arms around her, but she pulled away. "Madge — my dear," I said. "I didn't know you felt so bitter." But how could I tell her what was in my heart? She wouldn't listen, wouldn't believe me. I could only wait . . . wait for the day of the luncheon. BEFORE then, I met Tom, Kit's husband. He came over one night to see Kit and try to persuade her to come back to him. But she was cruel, as only the young and thoughtless can be cruel; she adroitly managed things so they could not be alone, she kept Madge or myself in the room with them; and she built a wall of gayety and excitement around herself which he could not penetrate. I was sorry for him. He was so young and so much in love — and so defenseless, in his honesty, against Kit's vivid, mercurial temperament. He had absolutely no conception of the inner urge in her which was driving her out of his life. . When he left, I invited him to come to Blasco's luncheon too. He was almost pathetically grateful. "But Camilla," Kit protested as soon as he was gone, "what in the world did you invite him for?" Madge said coldly, "Your grandmother's motive is so obvious that it's amusing. You may be disappointed, Mother — I don't think Tom will stack up so badly in comparison with your fine friends." "I shouldn't have asked him if I'd thought he would stack up badly!" I retorted, nettled against my will. Then, suddenly, it was the day — a beautiful summer day of sunlight so bright it seemed to crackle in your eyes. Kit was up early in the morning, practicing. Madge had banished herself to the kitchen, declaring that she would cook the meal but that otherwise she would have no hand in the party. It was nearly one when a long black car pulled up in front of the door. I saw Blasco get out and extend his hand for Laure Valiente — and for a moment I wanted to run and shut the door in their faces, take Kit by the hand and run away with her to hide. I could still stop what I had started — it wasn't too late! But then I took a deep breath and stifled the impulse. Once again I said to myself, "I must be ruthless." Soon the room seemed to be filled with people — although in reality there were only Laure and Blasco, Kit and I, a quiet little man named Pierre who was the accompanist, and — a few minutes later — Tom. But Laure herself was enough to fill a room to overflowing. That rounded, lovely body had become gross and fat and a little dirty; she was dressed in shapeless, faded purple; but her black eyes flashed with the old fire and her speaking voice, at least, retained all the magic that had held millions in Europe and America spellbound. A great artist, a vital person — those two things she had always been, and those two things she would be until the day she died. I noticed her face light up when Tom was introduced, and at luncheon she insisted that he sit next to her. "I discover this young man knows all about growing tomatoes," she announced to the table at large. "He will come and see the ones on my farm, and then he will know more!" She flung back her head and laughed uproariously, bracing both pudgy hands against the table edge. "I tell you, Laure," Blasco said. "I come up and help you pick those tomatoes— then I show you how to make chili." "Chili!" Laure shook her head violenfv. "Not with my tomatoes!" "Then an omelette — with tomato sauce and green peppers, yes?" "No! No omelette, either. Spaghetti! A whole row of garlic I have planted." Blasco pounded on the table until Madge's delicate crystal goblets rocked on their slender stems. "Chili, I tell you! My chili is the wonder of the world. . . ." I looked at Kit. The food on her plate was untouched. She was watching Laure and Blasco with wide-open, shocked eyes. Of course! She had expected, poor child, a famous singer and a great impresario who would talk of gala performances at La Scala, or music and composers and conductors — not of tomatoes and garlic. Blasco's quick, twinkling eyes saw her expression, and he turned to her like an amiable bear. "You are shocked, young lady? But tomatoes and garlic — -yes, and chili and spaghetti too — they are important. They are as important as scales and cadenzas ... as you may know, perhaps, when you are a great singer." KIT caught her breath. "Do you think I might be?" Blasco, his mouth full of Madge's excellent apple pie, shrugged. "We will see. You must sing for us. Why you want to be a singer?" "Oh . . ." The sudden silence that had fallen around the table, the awareness that Blasco, Laure, Tom were all watching her, waiting for her to speak, tied poor Kit's tongue. I saw her struggle with what she wanted to say, then burst out: "Because I love it . . . and I want to be famous ... I want to live!" Blasco exploded. "Live! Tell her, Laure — tell her how much of living is possible when you are artiste. Work, ambition, fear, drive . . . and sacrifice . . . but nothing else. Is that living, Laure? And then your voice goes — and after that there is nothing. Isn't it so, Laure?" But Laure Valiente smiled and shook her head. "Oh, no, Vincente. Then for the first time comes happi RADIO AND TELEVISION MIHFOB