LordPeter List Literary Contest

Finally I got up, making my way into a kind of ballroom. A small group of musicians sat on a low platform, with visitors sitting both around it and along all four walls, drinking and watching soft rich folks dancing with hard pros. As I took a spot and a drink, I found I was watching a young pair waltzing skillfully but without passion, without paying it much mind at all.

A tall man and fair, with smooth, slick hair, but an odd pallor and a sad mouth, was twirling a girl in an amazing gown of pink satin with a train culminating in a big mound of chiffon; a girl turning languidly in his arms to Johann Strauss, Jr.'s, Opus 314, and displaying a coy mask that would do a Victorian flirt proud. Obviously both pros.

It's all so long ago and far away, I thought. So many long skirts and outfits so apt for a '70's ball. And not only old gowns, but hats clad in ostrich, and fans. But it was all so obviously an imitation. Tiny waists would grow by dint of daylight and tunic-frock to normal muscular girth, loathing all bonds. Down-cast looks will vanish and bold truths will out.

Was mankind so stupid as to think that an old fashion in hats and gowns could bring back submission in woman?

"Hardly," I thought, "not now that I can just don a short skirt and walk off, with a job to do and cash in hand.

Anyway, as long as this isn't fooling a soul, I doubt it's actually so harmful as all that.

-- Gaud

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