LordPeter List Literary Contest

Our heroine of this story (for all readers know that the writer is obliged to provide one) made her way into a kind of a large lounge, whose center was cleared for dancing. An orchestra of unmistakably select muscians was playing not the music so popular with current fashion, but rather, surprisingly, a Strauss waltz that recollected a more romantic era of coyness and propriety. The floor was occupied by a pair of dancers who, if we adhere scrupulously to truth, were not the sort to be made welcome at a deanery. The man, although tall and fair, could not be described as handsome. His sleek hair was plastered unnaturally to his head and his unhealthy face only emphasized a wide, melancholy mouth. The girl, it must be admitted, did not appear terribly clever, but she had sufficient presence to assume that mask of Victorian coyness so treasured by our ancestors when those waltzes were new. Her gown was startling, made of a lovely petunia satin but with an exaggerated bustle more proper to an aged dowager holding court before her peers. Indeed, as Harriet looked around the room she saw an abundance of long skirts and costumes of the seventies, even ostrich feathers and fans.

"But it's only an imitation!" Harriet exclaimed to herself. "Tomorrow's tennis game will reveal those same figures to be vigorous and athletic. Why, it's only expensive dressmaking that makes them so narrow."

A woman at the next table favored her with a sharp-nosed glance and, flushing, Harriet realized she'd been speaking aloud, as was her unfortunate habit. She sipped her coffee. It was clear to her that those sidelong glances and down-cast eyes were no "return to womanliness." It was a game that could be played when a person had the advantage of economic independence. A less-than-clever man might believe that submissive womanhood could be brought back by milliners' fashions. Yet we know that a modern, sensible girl only has to remove the train and the bustle, get into a short skirt and walk off, with a job to do and money in one's pocket.

Harriet shook her head at this modern charade. "Still, it's a game, and presumably they all know the rules. Autres temps, autres moeurs." We presume the reader shares with this considered opinion.

-- Miss Martin

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