perfect fit of
one's own skin to a party gown which dazzles envious observers, and
why is the adjective reserved for the educated but abbreviated Mother
Hubbard?

"The apparel oft proclaims the man," and even more is woman dependent
upon her clothes for physical, moral, and intellectual support. An
uncorseted body will soon make its influence felt upon the mind. The
steel-and-whalebone spine which properly reinforces all feminine
vertebra is literally the backbone of a woman's self-respect.

Would the iceman or the janitor hesitate to "talk back" to the
uncorseted lady in a pink dressing-sack?--Hardly!

But confront the erring man with a quiet, dignified woman in a crisp
shirt-waist and a clean collar--verily he will think twice before he
ventures an excuse for his failings.

The iceman and the grocery boy see more dressing-sacks than most
others, for they are privileged to approach the back doors of
residences, and to hold conversations with the lady of the house,
after the departure of him whose duty and pleasure it is to pay for
the remnants. And in the lower strata they are known by their clothes.

"Fifty pounds for the red dressing-sack," says the iceman to his
helper, "and a hundred for the blue. Step lively now!"

And how should madame know that her order for a steak, a peck of
potatoes, and two lemons, is registered in the grocery boy's book
under the laconic title, "Pink"?

* * * * *

After breakfast, when she sits down to read the paper and make her
plans for the day, the insidious dressing-sack gets in its deadly
work.

"I won't dress," she thinks, "until I get ready to go out." After
luncheon, she is too tired to go out, and too nearly dead to dress.

Friends come in, perhaps, and say: "Oh, how comfortable you look!
Isn't that a dear kimono?" Madame plumes herself with conscious pride,
for indeed it is a dear kimono, and already she sees herself with a
reputation for "exquisite negligee."

The clock strikes six, and presently the lord of the manor comes home
to be fed. "I'm dreadfully sorry, dear, you should find me looking
so," says the lady of his heart, "but I just haven't felt well enough
to dress. You don't mind, do you?"

The dear, good, subdued soul says he is far from minding, and dinner
is like breakfast as far as dressing-sacks go.

Perhaps, in the far depths of his nature, the man wonders why it was
that, in the halcyon days of courtship, he never be