Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

PME CHEEKS DON'T THRIIL HEARTS! . . . White faced women look old . . . Here . . . revealed for the first time is one oj Hollywood's most important make-up secrets: To make an actress took old or unromantic, they whiten her cheeks. To make her look younger, fresher, more desirable, they give color — the glow oj real, live color to her cheeks. Tiny woman, no matter how young in body or mind, adds unwanted years to her looks by going about with white, lifeless cheeks. Colorless cheeks are repellent . . . they look sickly . . . corpse-like . . . cold . . . no one wants to touch them. And flat, one-tone rouges do little better. They look "fakey" . . . painted and repellent, too. They give you artificial, lifeless color . . . no radiance . . . no way to charm. But oh how different is lively duotone rouge! It's really alive ... it glows . . . its color looks real, as if it came from within ... it radiates vivacity sweetness so warm that no one, just NO one, can ever resist its invitation! Duo-tone rouge is the easiest in the world to get, too. Simply ask for PRINCESS PAT duo tone rouge. All stores have it in all shades. See them . . . one is sure to be YOUR "shade of romance" . . . the shade that will make YOU look younger . . . more really exciting to hearts! The eye of the motion picture camera is no more critical than the eyes of men you w ish to admire you. No man craves to touch a corpselike cheek. Our Gal Sunday's Romance (Continued from page 33) Princess Pat BOTUSH CUTICLE GOES w/murmr/m Wrap cotton around the end of an orangewood stick. Saturate with Trimal and apply it to cuticle. Watch dead cuticle soften. Wipe it away with a towel. You will be amazed with the results. On sale at drug, department and 10-cent tores. TRIMAL 60 a single room nearby for Jackey and Lively — an arrangement that allowed the two old men to watch the baby during the day. Laura Jenkins had immediately taken Sunday into her heart, to such an extent, indeed, that Sunday sometimes felt she had been hired not for a secretary, but for a companion. Laura was, in some ways, a pitiful figure. In that nervous little body there were huge stores of energy and unexpended love, combined with a complete innocence about people and their motives. She could have been — and probably was — deceived a dozen times a day, by people she trusted. And she trusted everyone. It was obvious to Sunday from the first day she spent in the Jenkins house that Brad and Laura were much less than happy together. Laura's flightiness and extravagance irritated Brad to tight-lipped rage, and his business-like caution seemed only meanness to her. Almost at once she made of Sunday a sounding-board for her grievances, seemingly quite unaware that her confidences were unwelcome and embarrassing. One day, unexpectedly, Laura said, "Sunday darling, you're not looking well. You need some life — some gaiety— that's the trouble. I want you to come back tonight after dinner — I'm having some friends in, and there's one I particularly want you to meet. A charming boy— do you like Englishmen?" "Very much," Sunday murmured, while the sudden memory of Henry, of Henry's clipped English accent, stung her heart. "But — I don't think I'd better — " NONSENSE! You're too shy, Sunday. You need to — to get out of yourself." Since there was no arguing with Laura, Sunday returned that evening, dressed in her best — a simple dark frock that had been part of her trousseau. In spite of herself, she couldn't help feeling a little excited as she went up the steps toward the brightly lighted front door of the Jenkins home. It was so long since she had laughed, or had a good time! Then Laura met her at the door and led her toward the drawing room, whispering confidentially in her ear. "He's here, waiting for you. And my dear, I've given you the most wonderful build-up — I've only told him how lovely you are, but I won't tell him another thing — except that your first name is Sunday. He's so curious he could burst!" The drawing room was empty except for one man — a man who stood with his back to them as they entered. He was tall and slim, with clothes that he wore with an easy grace. Then he turned, and as he did so, Laura said: "Arthur, here she is! Sunday, may I present Arthur Brinthrope?" In the instant of silence that followed, Sunday saw his secret, delighted smile, caught the look of sly malice in his eyes. "How do you do?" he said, in the smoothest of voices. "Laura, my dear, why didn't you tell me she was beautiful?" Somehow she managed to play up to him. Somehow she pretended that she had never seen Arthur Brinthrope before. And as the evening went on, and other people dropped in, she began to hope that perhaps he too would be willing to keep up the fiction that she was merely a young widow named Sunday Blake, whom he had never met. It was a hope that was shattered when, at last, she said good night to Laura and he insisted upon driving her home in his car — exactly the kind of car, glittering and foreign and a little vulgar, that she would have expected Arthur to possess. "Well, my dear Lady Brinthrope," he said as the powerful motor carried them away from Laura's home. "A very pleasant surprise for both of us — though I must confess that when Laura told me your first name was Sunday, I was prepared." D LEASE don't call me Lady Brinr thrope," she begged, and he laughed. "You're quite right — it is a little formal. After all, you're ray dear sister-in-law. . . . And I suppose my two good old friends Jackey and Lively are here in Linden?" "Yes." He was playing with her, teasing her. She made up her mind she would give him little enough satisfaction; she would answer his questions and no more than that. "Jackey, of the homicidal instincts," he mused. "It must have been a great relief to you, my dear, when you finally learned he hadn't killed me, after all." "Arthur," she said sharply. "I want you to take me home. This isn't the right way." "Oh, I know that. I know my way around Linden very well." "I'm sure of that." In fact, all evening she had been wondering what Arthur could be doing in Linden. Not working, surely; Arthur didn't work. But a small place like Linden seemed to offer few opportunities for his peculiar kind of genius. "Take me home, please. It's late." "As you say," he agreed, and swung the car around a corner. "But I really think we ought to have dinner together tomorrow night." "I'm sorry. I can't." "But I want to talk to you! There are several things we have to discuss, Sunday." "There's nothing at all we have to discuss," she told him. "Oh, but you're wrong!" She could feel him glancing at her, slyly. "There's one very important thing, anyway. After all, I have my duty to my dear brother — " "Your duty? What do you mean?" "Hasn't he been moving heaven and earth to find you? — or were all those newspaper stories mistaken? It seems to me I really ought to let him know where you are." "Arthur! You mustn't!" Fear pinched her voice, made her body go numb and icy. "Henry and I are separated. It would do no good — it would only cause him unhappiness— if he were to see me again. You mustn't tell him where I am!" "Henry doesn't seem to think so," he said softly. "I really think I should tell him — don't you? Unless, tomorrow night, at dinner, you can show me a good reason why I shouldn't." He stopped the car at the curb before RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR