A Lady's Honor

Gwendo Travis was the kind of girl who would phone you at three in the morning to ask, "Darling, what's a salt lick? I've been reading The Green Hills of Africa." After assuring her it was nothing more sinister than a mineral deposit where jungle animals went on sodium chloride benders, she would say, "Thank you, dear – you've taken a frightful load off my mind," and hang up.

She was also the kind of girl who could earn five thousand a week and win an Oscar without possessing a shred of acting talent. But then Gwendolyn Travis didn't need acting talent. Her talent lay in other directions. She had the faculty of making otherwise self-contained men bubble at the mouth by simply looking at them and uttering a single word. What word? No matter: on Gwendo's lips, the most innocent words became witheringly suggestive. This was a talent for which several young actresses I knew would willingly have swapped the combined thespian abilities of Garbo, Bernhardt and Liberace.

I had always been extremely fond of Gwendo. She was capable of taking anything in her stride. When, for example, Daphne Grey, a rival actress, brought a Hollywood rumor to a head by asking her point blank if she had, in less prosperous days, performed in one-reel films suited primarily for private showings at men's smokers, Gwendo replied, "I really couldn't say, darling. Some people –" (and here she regarded Daphne with unusual fixity) "– may be able to munch sandwiches, do intricate mathematical sums or paint their nails while in the throes of passion. I myself am not so jaded. I certainly would never notice an intruder with a camera."

Admiring Gwendo as I did, it was with pleasure that I anticipated the little party she was throwing to signalize the divorce from her fifth husband. He, the peerless tragedian Geoffrey Wilmont of the New York and London stages, had enjoyed connubial privileges with Gwendo for roughly six months before she consigned him to the ex heap. Poor Geoffrey: what a blow to his monolithic ego. Oh well, it had been a six months many a red-blooded lad, myself included, could look upon with envy.

The evening of the party found me in an extravagant mood. I did gay, foolish things like putting a new blade in my razor and throwing Aqua Velva about with great abandon. When my toilette was completed, I hopped nimbly into my Volkswagen and, a song on my lips, made straightway for the modest thirty-room cottage that kept the rain off Gwendo's silken back.

I was greeted at the door by the girl herself. She was dressed (I use the word in its broad sense) in something of her own design. The front was one long, unlimited decolletage through which the green hills of Africa, salt lick and all, might be discerned.

"My dear Ramrod," she gushed (her nicknames were rather avant-garde). "I'm so glad you could come. Say something wanton to me."

"Thy navel," I said wantonly, "is like a round goblet which wanteth not liquor, thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies."

"How nice of you to notice," she said.

Taking my hot and grubby hand, she led me into the midst of the gathering, forced my fingers around a drink and introduced me as Alec Guinness (her way of demolishing the Hollywood caste system which looks down upon such lowly writers as myself). This clever device afforded me a great deal of popularity for some time, and though I suffered the pangs of imminent exposure when one red-headed starlet told me I looked so different off the screen, I quickly assured her I never appeared before the cameras without first donning one of several large rubber masks.

The entire cadre of bobby-sox bait was on hand: every Tom, Dick, Rock, Tab, Touch, Race, Shaft, Thrust and Harry. From time to time one of these would hang about Gwendo like a bird of prey, and she, partly out of pity, partly out of joie de vivre, and partly to clear the atmosphere of that uncomfortable tension he contributed, would quietly ask him to meet her in the library. Upon their return a remarkably few minutes later, he would appear much more relaxed. Having been in the same position myself a time or two, it was not difficult for me to reconstruct the scenes in the library. With swelling heart I recalled how, on one occasion, just before we rejoined the other guests, she poured herself a shot of rye, tossed it down in one gulp, and said, "Sometime you can do me a favor, Lollipop."

As I was sipping my third rum-on-the-rocks, the door was opened to admit Daphne Grey, who was wearing a diamond tiara on her head, bracelets on her wrists, rings on her fingers, bells on her toes, and Geoffrey Wilmont on her arm. This last ornament was rather a surprise, considering that the whole point of the night's festivities was to celebrate Gwendo's severance from same. Geoffrey was icily jovial toward her, but she took it in her usual stride, greeting them both effusively and screwing drinks into their fists.

"Isn't Geoffrey handsome?" she asked me later. "Nobody will ever know what an effort of will it required to give such a decorative piece of goods the air."

"Why did you, Gwendo?" I asked.

"Mind over matter," she replied. "My loins said keep him, my brains said kick him out. And just this once the loins lost. Geoffrey's sweet in his way, but Lord God of Hosts what a bore. He never seemed so stuffy in the old days; but lately – oh, darling, you have no idea. Imagine a man who would recite Shelley to a girl on his wedding night."

"Why, that seems very romantic. Touching, I call it."

"Touching, my tailbone."

"I'd love to."

"Later. Really, a few lines of Shelley I might have swallowed, but when it went on for forty-five minutes and me fairly gasping for that good old consummation-devoutly-to-be-wished, oh no: that was too much for little Gwendolyn. I endured it for six months just for the sake of that Greek god carcass of his, then my gorge rose. I'd had it."

"Does sound rather trying," I admitted. "Still, not every girl can take the foremost tragedian of our time to bed every night."

"Darling, you can take all the foremost tragedians of our time and –" Here she grew too graphic for my pristine pen.

"Mr. Guinness," said the red-headed starlet, sidling up to me after Gwendo had wandered off, "you've acted with Yvonne de Carlo. Tell me: is it true what that exposé magazine said about her? Was she once a man?"

"Not that I could notice," I said. "But I have heard that Bob Mitchum was once a Buddhist priest."

Gwendo was unrolling a movie screen preparatory to giving us a preview of the day's rushes (a ritual at all of Gwendo's parties) and one of the cleft-chin boys was setting up a projector atop the grand piano. There was a violent skirmish for the available chairs, hassocks and laps; I, not being fleet enough, wound up cross-legged on the floor next to the starlet. An excess of liquor had made her suddenly familiar: she called me "Alec" and stroked my thighs as soon as the lights went out.

From what I could fathom, Gwendo's current film was one of those stirring affairs that usually take place aboard a sinking ship or an airplane with one engine gone. This time it appeared to be a railroad train stranded in the snow. I can't be certain, but I think there was a shipment of uranium threatening to go off in the freight car. Among the many familiar characters was a steely-eyed, firm-jawed tycoon who disintegrated under the strain and ran amok, screaming and rolling his eyes until someone slapped his face and sent him cringing quietly into a corner (this kind of impromptu therapy, I've observed, is always extremely effective on the screen). Gwendo was playing a hitherto-haughty debutante, transformed by the parlous circumstances into a solicitous siren who kept asking everybody if they'd like some hot coffee. This gave her the opportunity to bend forward from the waist quite often and gave the camera the opportunity to crawl down her cleavage. The rushes were over in fifteen minutes and the lights went on just as the starlet was seeking new territory to stroke. I cursed softly.

Daphne Grey's voice was the first to be heard: "That was just lovely, Gwendo dear. Would you mind awfully if we ran off some of mine now?" Gwendo acquiesced with well-concealed annoyance and Daphne produced a can of film which was promptly threaded into the projector. The starlet resumed operations as the lights went out for the second time.

I was amazed at the primitive photography of Daphne's film. It appeared to have been shot in a barn and lit by magnesium torches. I was even more amazed when I saw that the actress who walked into camera range was not Daphne but Gwendo, looking at least fifteen years younger. When she proceeded to strip down to her pelt, there was little doubt in my mind as to the nature of the film, and what doubt remained was dispelled upon the entrance of a heavily made-up young man who also began peeling.

The starlet squealed with delight, but a large form stepped in front of the projector, blacking out the screen. Disappointed groans filled the room. A resonant voice said, "Stop this shameful display at once!" The lights went on again and Geoffrey Wilmont was discovered solemnly removing the film from the projector and stuffing it back into the can.

"How small of you, Daphne," he said severely. "How ignoble." But Daphne, emitting a witch-like cackle, had sailed out the door.

Geoffrey tucked the reel of film under his arm and, with a gallant bow to Gwendo, murmured, "It will be my pleasure, madam, to consign this object to the fire it so richly deserves. Do I (continued on page 60)Lady's Honor(continued from page 40) have your permission?"

"Of course, Geoffrey. And thank you so much."

The excitement over, I turned my attention to the starlet, but she was industriously snoring under the piano. The party broke up rapidly. I helped Gwendo dump the unconscious segment of her guests into cabs, then dismantled the projector while she kicked off her shoes and sank into the sofa with great relief.

"You look frustrated or something," she observed.

"I was making time with the red-head until she passed out."

"Never mind," she yawned. "Come help me with this damned zipper and she'll be soon forgotten."

"Geoffrey was certainly magnificent," I commented as I did her bidding. "A regular knight in shining armor. After the way you dumped him, I would never have thought he'd defend your good name with so much chivalry and dispatch. He must deeply respect you."

"Oh darling, he loathes me!"

"Then why---"

"My dear boy. Didn't you recognize the male lead in that charming old film?"

"The male lead? Why, no ..."

"Thank goodness. Geoffrey's secret is safe. As I remarked before, he was anything but stuffy in the old days. Too bad you didn't get to see our big scene ..."

I agreed. But I must say, in all fairness to Gwendo, that her account of it more than made up for the film's abrupt curtailment. Sure enough, the red-head was swiftly banished from my mind.

"Stop this shameful display at once!" he cried.