Love and Lipsticks.
The most burning question of the day, dear reader, has nothing to do with the Jewish question, fire insurance, or love. Truly each of these is inseparable from the science of conflagration. Let us, for instance, consider Love
as one of the inflammatory questions of the ages. Time was when the average suitor's love was of such voltage that he was obliged to wear an asbestos chest-protector to save his braces from incineration. Those were the days, romantic reader, when strong men melted like margarine in the heat of the moment, when Eros shot flare bombs at the palpitating corsage of panting damsels, and the whole business was shunned by the insurance companies as an unprofitable risk. This form of emotional incendiarism is still popular along the volcano belt, but for us the flames of love have been quenched with ice cream and surf-bathing. No longer do we moan at the moon as if we had been stung by an Italian bee in a vital spot, when some specimen of the modiste's passion for sartorial economy throws us an eyeful. No longer do we write sonnets to Semolena, lyrics to Lucretia, or fatuity to Fatima. No longer do we get insomnia over Ermyntrude's eyes. In
“The porters come over all goosey.”
“There is so much of Ermyntrude visible.”
fact there is so much of Ermyntrude visible today that it is not at all difficult to overlook her eyes altogether. Not so in the days of yore when Ermyntrude's eyes were practically the only part of her that had escaped the upholsterer's art. But to-day even the vampire has taken to volplaning and Eros has taken the air.
Thus, dear reader, it is evident that love is not the burning question of to-day.