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vate secretary, across the breakfast ham-and-eggs : "Boy, this is going
jto be the greatest screen play you've
'ever seen L"
By Saturday noon he had sent Gwen an enormous box of orchids, with a note saying : "Don't you wear
| them to my party. You come shabby — or not at all."
By Saturday night he was his old
| lean, swarthy, cheerful, slightly sardonic and supremely confident self, greeting his guests who arrived in droves and, soon, filled the large Beverly Hills house to overflowing.
Almost everybody who was anybody— here, in Hollywood, where nobody doubts that he is somebody— was there. A bizarre and picaresque medley. W riters. Composers. Producers. Directors. Yesmen. Yes-sir-men. Assistant-yes-^/'rraen. Also — and chiefly — Thespians, each of them playing a part; each, so desperately and so pathetically, endeavoring to appear like somebody which he — or she — or it — was not.
There was, for instance, a famous German actress who overemphasized the ultra-chic of Paris in vogue and vice. A recently imported French ingenue who, a more or less natural blonde, aped oldfashioned Teutonic Lorelei innocence by wearing her hair in a naive Gretchen braid cunningly interwoven with ribbons of baby-blue silk. A juvenile — a few months earlier, thanks to his classic profile, raised from extra to star and, by the same token, from seven and a half (Please turn to page 88)
LLUSTRATED BY
GEORGIA WARREN
Men and women. Talking, drinking, flirting, gossiping. Making and unmaking reputations good and bad. The Hollywood party was in full swing.
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