d
road. She smiled at you over her shoulder radiant in a white tricot Palm
Beach suit, who thought palms grew in jardinieres only. On page 17 she
was revealed in the boyish impudence of our Aiken Polo Habit, complete,
$90. She was ravishing in her golf clothes, her small feet in sturdy,
flat-heeled boots planted far apart, and only the most carping would
have commented on the utter impossibility of her stance. Then there was
the Killiecrankie Travel Tog (background of assorted mountains) made of
Scotch tweed (she would never come nearer Scotland than oatmeal for
breakfast) only $140. To say nothing of motor clothes, woodland suits,
trap-shooting costumes, Yellowstone Park outfits, hunting habits. She
wore brogues, and boots, and skating shoes, and puttees and tennis ties;
sou'westers, leather topcoats, Jersey silks, military capes. You saw her
fishing, hunting, boating, riding, golfing, snow-shoeing, swimming. She
was equally lovely in khaki with woollen stockings, or in a habit of
white linen and the shiniest of riding-boots. And as she peeled off the
one to put on the next she remarked wearily, "A kimono and felt slippers
and my hair down my back will look pretty good to me to-night, after
this."

You see, Myra and Florian really had so much in common that if he had
been honest with himself the course of their love would have run too
smooth to be true. But Florian, in his effort to register as a
two-fisted, hard-riding, nature-taming male, made such a success of it
that for a long time he deceived even Myra who loved him. And during
that time she, too, lied in her frantic effort to match her step with
his. When he talked of riding and swimming; of long, hard mountain
hikes; of impenetrable woods, she looked at him with sparkling eyes.
(She didn't need to throw much effort into that, nature having supplied
her with the ground materials.) When, on their rare Sundays together, he
suggested a long tramp up the Palisades she agreed enthusiastically,
though she hated it. Not only that, she went, loathing it. The stones
hurt her feet. Her slender ankles ached. The sun burned her delicate
skin. The wind pierced her thin coat. Florian strode along with the
exaggerated step of the short man who bitterly resents his lack of
stature. Every now and then he stood still, and breathed deeply, and
said, "Glorious!" And Myra looked at his straight back, and his
clear-cut profile, and his well-dressed legs and said, "Isn't it!" and
wis