In a garishly decorated Los Angeles hotel suite, Johnny Fontane was as

Jealously drunk as any ordinary husband. Sprawled on a red couch, he drank

Straight from the bottle of scotch in his hand, then washed the taste away by

Dunking his mouth in a crystal bucket of ice cubes and water. It was four in the

Morning and he was spinning drunken fantasies of murdering his trampy wife

When she got home, if she ever did come home. It was too late to call his first wife

And ask about the kids and he felt funny about calling any of his friends now that

His career was plunging downhill. There had been a time when they would have

Been delighted, flattered by his calling them at four in the morning but now he

Bored them. He could even smile a little to himself as he thought that on the way

up Johnny Fontane's troubles had fascinated some of the greatest female stars in

America.

2 Gulping at his bottle of scotch, he heard finally his wife's key in the door, but

He kept drinking until she walked into the room and stood before him. She was to

Him so very beautiful, the angelic face, soulful violet eyes, the delicately fragile

But perfectly formed body. On the screen her beauty was magnified, spiritualized.

A hundred million men all over the world were in love with the face of Margot