have her decidedly underdressed, but
she is much the same girl. Very young men cannot have too many of her,
but myself I am getting tired of her. I suppose it is the result of
growing old.

Why not the Eternal Male for a change?

Girls of my acquaintance are also beginning to grumble at her. I often
think it hard on girls that the artist so neglects the eternal male. Why
should there not be portraits of young men in different hats; young men
in big hats, young men in little hats, young men smiling archly, young
men looking noble. Girls don't want to decorate their rooms with
pictures of other girls, they want rows of young men beaming down upon
them.

But possibly I am sinning my mercies. A father hears what young men
don't. The girl in real life is feeling it keenly: the impossible
standard set for her by the popular artist.

"Real skirts don't hang like that," she grumbles, "it's not in the nature
of skirts. You can't have feet that size. It isn't our fault, they are
not made. Look at those waists! There would be no room to put
anything?"

"Nature, in fashioning woman, has not yet crept up to the artistic ideal.
The young man studies the picture on the postcard; on the coloured
almanack given away at Christmas by the local grocer; on the
advertisement of Jones' soap, and thinks with discontent of Polly
Perkins, who in a natural way is as pretty a girl as can be looked for in
this imperfect world. Thus it is that woman has had to take to shorthand
and typewriting. Modern woman is being ruined by the artist.

How Women are ruined by Art.

Mr. Anstey tells a story of a young barber who fell in love with his own
wax model. All day he dreamed of the impossible. She--the young lady of
wax-like complexion, with her everlasting expression of dignity combined
with amiability. No girl of his acquaintance could compete with her. If
I remember rightly he died a bachelor, still dreaming of wax-like
perfection. Perhaps it is as well we men are not handicapped to the same
extent. If every hoarding, if every picture shop window, if every
illustrated journal teemed with illustrations of the ideal young man in
perfect fitting trousers that never bagged at the knees! Maybe it would
result in our cooking our own breakfasts and making our own beds to the
end of our lives.

The novelist and playwright, as it is, have made things difficult enough
for us. In books and plays the young man makes love