The love interest really must come into the life of every young girl. After a girl has once been married, a second, third or even a fourth husband are simple matters. Getting a husband is rather like getting the olives out of a bottle—after you get the first one, the rest come easily.
Cozy Mysteries with Authors as Sleuths, Pt. 3 (of 3): M – Z
Every girl is likely to be dazzled by the radiance of the Social Light. He shines in ball-rooms, and in the frontline trenches of tea-fights; he fox-trots with passionate abandon, he is the life and soul of every dinner party, but, around the house he is, unfortunately, something else again. He wears his hair in the manner made popular by Irene Castle, and he believes in free speech, and free verse, and free love, and free everything. Then there is the Futurist Artist.
He dresses like the property artist in musical comedies and he is simply ripping at designing costumes—he tells you how Lucile is battling to engage him if he would only descend to commercialism. Avoid them, girls, avoid them! They always have a past! There is unquestionably much to be said on the side of the Munitions Millionaire, as a husband. The only trouble with a Munitions Millionaire is that his neck is a little too much inclined to bulge over the back of his collar.
The safest way is just to let Nature take its course. Here is a harrowing scene, one of the fearful tragedies incident to the strike of the nursemaids. Street-cleaners, ship-builders, riveters, gasfitters, and all other laborers claim the right to a forty-four hour week and every evening and Sunday off, with no questions asked—why not husbands?
Here is one of the agitators of the Industrial Husbands of the World, shown in the act of uprising. Even the hairdressers are getting into the spirit of the times, and pledging themselves to strike while the curling-iron is hot. They have found that there is really very little in this silly idea of a life on a Marcel wave. Observe this terrible catastrophe—the striker is throwing down his badge of labor and going out, leaving his unfortunate client with half her hair as art intended it to be, and half of it in the unfinished state in which nature left it.
A strike of wives may be called at any time; many wives have been threatening to walk out for months. The thing is likely to prove rather embarrassing. In the midst of her enthusiastic welcome, she has been called out by three quite unfeeling delegates of her union. The maids are at last coming around to the modern way of thinking—that in unions there is strength. Here is an intimate glimpse of what will happen if they ever start striking. The maid is obeying the first law of all agitators,—-be sure to strike at the most inconvenient time.
She is leaving her employer, so to speak, sunk—just on the point of throwing up the sponge and going down for the third and last time. There are many terrible things in this world, as someone has so cleverly said, but the worst of all would be a strike of footmen. Why, all social life would be completely paralyzed by it.
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Just see what a cruel thing it would be. The footmen in this case are striking for shorter hours, higher wages, and looser liveries; they have walked out in the middle of the caviarre, leaving the guests face to face with starvation—and, what is worse, face to face with each other. Having your portrait painted, in the good old days, used to be a comparatively simple matter.
John Sargent. It used to be considered awfully radical and just the least bit Bohemian, to have your portrait done by a bearded foreigner like Monsieur Chartran,—local talent was simply nowhere. It was always obligatory, while posing for the portrait, to bring along a trained aunt, to keep off draughts and gentlemen callers.
When the canvas was done, you could almost always tell, in six guesses, who the portrait was intended to be. Never behave like the lady in the sketch; remember that only novices faint on seeing the completed masterpiece. The feeling, the soul, the ego—how could you know? If you want to go that far, you can have your portrait done by one of the cubist sculptors, who are causing such a furor—among themselves.
But the sculpture of the young Roumanian refugee artiste, now so plentifully in our midst, is the very farthest one can get in modern portraiture. The gifted sculptress specializes in soul portraits. Naturally, every woman loves to have a little statue of her soul, somewhere around the house. It is a most representative group of sculptors at their recent notable dinner. Unfortunately, Madeleine has so many tender missives from so many true loves that she is positively uncomfortable and can not sleep at all. She has tried counting her fingers, counting her sheep and counting her admirers, but all is in vain.
She is now desperately wondering if she ought to try the modern society method of marrying her true loves, one by one, until the right husband finally turns up. And yet, what is she to do when, having rejected a dozen proposals, along comes handsome Harry Radcliffe, with wealth, position and a personality that causes her heart to miss like a faulty motor. This is undoubtedly very pleasing to the Fates and Goddesses of Chance, but hardly as agreeable to the charming Mrs.
Drexel-Drexel who, quite naturally, objects to being salted, like an almond—particularly in public. It is an established fact, in the mind of Annabelle Armitage, who is shown on our left, that she will wed the first man who meets her gaze on St. She has not yet looked down, nor has Tony Galati, who does the Armitage roses, looked up, but Fate is plainly staging another of those elopements in high society with a stirring last act in which the pleasant news is broken to the present Signora Galati, in Calabria, and the seven little Galatis.
It is certainly hard on a hostess to have her dinner party spoiled by a social contretemps, yet that is what happened at Mrs. This is one of the worst omens of a relentless Nemesis, and foretells a solid year of hard luck. The new moon is a lovely sight, but, of course, it is absolutely fatal to look at it through glass, a fact well known by Eric Appledorn, who, we may say, is not as simple as he looks. The male students of the drama, in particular, seem to be ever on the lookout for good lines—especially those of the ladies of the chorus.
This is a scene from that realm of outer darkness—the moving picture theatre. The audiences are the thing that make moving pictures move.
Observe how intent they are upon the thrilling scenes reeling out before their very eyes. The stirring picture now on the screen shows the inhabitants of Nova Scotia tinning salmon. Only two people—in the back row—fail to register interest in the scenes before them,—those two are, nevertheless, true devotees of the cinema theatres.
You can always tell, by looking at the audience, just who is holding the center of the stage. When the masculine half of the audience occupies itself in reading the corset advertisements in the programmes or in looking restlessly about while the feminine half strains to catch every word—then you can be sure that the marcelled hero, in the jet-buttoned evening clothes, with the velvet collar, is standing in the spotlight and singing, or talking, rhapsodically about the age-old passion of LOVE.
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The war was really responsible for a great many unfortunate occurrences, as so many observant people have already pointed out. By way of celebrating their home-coming, they have been invited to see the latest imported French farce—and find that they can understand every word of it.
In the future, they will only patronize domestic products. This is one of those delightful little occasions where the children are given their annual holiday treat. All their existing ancestors, in a body, take them to the Hippodrome.
Loganberry Books: Solved Mysteries: M
For weeks before the eventful evening, their parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles go about suffering intensely saying what a fearful bore it is going to be and how they dread it, but they really must go through with it—it means so much to the kiddies. Here is the party, shown in action,—observe the deadly boredom of the grown people and the hysterical hilarity of the little guests of honor. When the ladies are reading the notes in the programme, or in studying the components of the complexion of the woman in the stage box, while the attention of the gentlemen is riveted on the stage—then you know that the chorus girls have undulated on.
This migratory blight always wears a gown out of which she can only escape with the aid of Harry Houdini. There is something about family relationships that always wrecks the entente-cordiale which should exist between guest and host.
Only the sacred rites of hospitality stand between this repulsive and misguided being and the honors of a sudden death.
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