Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 7, 1928 — page 86: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

226 manage, her arms powdered to gleam- ing whiteness, her neck and shoulders dazzling as snow when the sun shines on it. The figure of La Prévost—whatever may be said of the facial beauty of French women, the form has always been superb! The long billowing skirts of 1940 muffled the figures of the English- woman and the American, but the Frenchwoman used them for revealing rather than concealing. When La Prévost sang, when she leaned for- ward, grasped the skirt in her right hand and lifted it slowly, teasingly, and revealed a slender ankle and a swelling calf—what coquetry, what allure, what provocation to a generation of males unaccustomed to the brazen display of the female leg! Strictly speaking, Renée was not beautiful. Her nose was too big and her mouth too wide; but her eyes were overwhelming and her smile was ir- resistible. She had come from Paris only two weeks ago and was singing to an audience which did not understand French any better than previous gen- erations of English, but her pantomime they understood. She had revived the art of Yvette Gilbert, an art more of speaking than singing, and she put over delicious little songs with a toss of her head, the twitter of an eyelash, and the squeak of a small birdlike voice. In Paris she had enjoyed a success of estime which is agreeable, though not profitable, but in London she was already a sensation. Dick was out front that night with Roger, and if he were not carried away so completely by the wicked little woman as was his ingenuous friend he was sufficiently in- fluenced by her. “We've got to meet her, Roger,” he declared. ‘“‘ That young lady needs the influence of a couple of good men.” “Right you are, my _ hearty,” declared Roger. “This exquisite foreign visitor requires the proper ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. guidance. She might get lost in a London fog or fall into wrong hands. The question is whether she isn’t all dated up already. She’s been in town two weeks.”’ “[ don’t suppose she would pay much attention to a note sent around to her dressing room.” “Let us take no chances. We'll find the manager and see that we are properly introduced.” “Do you know him?” “That’s one I’ve overlooked,” ad- mitted the son of Sir Augustus. “‘How- ever, I find that the name of Tuttle carries a lot of weight with managers, And [ll wager he has heard of you.” Dick winced, but managed a trium- phant grin. “Let’s find him. You introduce me and I[’ll introduce you,” he proposed. Although there was more to the show, they climbed over half a dozen patrons and sought the box office. “Will you tell the house manager that Sir Augustus Tuttle would whis- per in his ear?’’ demanded Roger. A small, fat Hebrew, clean-shaved, bushy of eyebrows and bald of head, who had been sitting at the rear of the box office, immediately came forward. “T’m Mr. Abrams, the house man- ager,” he declared, “but you are not Sir Augustus Tuttle.” “ Well, practically I am,” declared Roger with an engaging grin. “I’m his only son and heir. |How’s that, Mr. Abrams?” “Tll be out,” replied the manager. A moment later he came into the lobby. “This,” declared Roger, “is none other than Richard Boswell, Jr., of Detroit, whose father owns most of North and South America.” The manager grinned derisively. “The fellow that starred Amy Des- mond in New York last year? How are ye, Mr. Boswell.” “T see my reputation has crossed the sea,’ said Dick almost ruefully. “TIT was in New York last season (€(0) N0OOLKS AMUNG (C@)