“She knows just how to wear her clothes!” How often we hear this said about one of our friends–and then again–“She has some simply divine things–but she never looks well-dressed!” Wherein lies that subtle distinction between the “chic” girl and the “frump?” It is not a question of money–although we cannot deny that it is far easier for the wealthy woman to express herself in her clothes–than for her less financial sister who is compelled by “fell circumstance” to haunt sales–to lurk at bargain counters–to scheme, to renovate, to fight bravely in order to keep abreast of Dame Fashion in her flights and caprices. Yet often have I met with an undeniably smart girl belonging to the more numerous latter band–and I take off my hat to her and give her all honour!

Undoubtedly a “sense of dress” is an invaluable gift and has been handed down by Eve to her daughters since the days of fig-leaves! But some of us have lost it, some think it matters not—others rely too confidently upon the charm of a pretty face and do not bother about “fine feathers.” If we look long enough among our possessions we will find hidden away this “dress sense” waiting to be cultivated–waiting to tell us the difference between “getting into clothes” and “putting clothes on.” I believe it is the duty of every woman, since civilization demands that she shall be clad, to enhance her beauty by soft colours, delicate suggestions, subtle blendings–rather than disguise her form in unlovely, inexpressive totally uninteresting “coverings.”

It requires mentality to be well-dressed–rather more than money–observation and appreciation of beauty of line, of form and of colour–a sense of the suitable and the unartificial–a desire to be your best possible self. “She thinks of simply nothing but clothes,” we hear, “and spends every penny on her back.”–but we don't realize the character she is developing, while indulging, perhaps too excessively, in the ardornment of her being. “The Beggar Maid in her rags had a sense of dress, an undefinable gift of charm and style, and it won for her the love of a king.”

* * *

Organdie and Broderie Anglaise.

Do you want to have something really alluring this summer–something just created to drift about in gardens among the roses where you will not feel an intruder but part of the wonderful scheme of things? A dress that will float gently page 60 page 61 in the summer breezes–that will look something between a cloud and a flower?

This summer our frocks are to be ultra-feminine. Out from 1932 steps a rather adorable little Victorian; perhaps not so slender as to waist, nor so demure as to shy downward glances, but equally charming in her frills, and her ribbons, and her audacious entrancing hats. There is a faint rumour that cigarettes will have to be abandoned as totally unsuited for the “tout ensemble” of the coming year! In the meantime, let us discuss over a cigarette your summer creation–which can be a delightful blend of the new Broderie Anglaise and organdie. Make a short little bodice of Broderie Anglaise, close fitting–with tiny puffed sleeves–and your skirt shall be of flared organdie—with bands of Broderie Anglaise and two frills of organdie at the hem. Then make a short coatee, without which no frock is complete–a dainty little affair of lace with a tiny organdie frill all round the edge.

Christmas Day.
God's morn to you!
Once more has Christmas Day
Come by with all its many joys.
And can you not recall the snow-clad miles,
The logs ablaze within the chimney piles?
Nor hear again the frolic, nor the play
'Neath mistletoe and holly bough, the slanted smiles
Of maids demure and shy-bold boys?
Can you not visualise that Xmas tree.
With dancing flame jets–gold and red?
Sleep misted eyes, waiting the chime
Of fairy-bells, to catch dear Santy climb
Down thro’ the flue, coated in rime?
Your stocking hang–the biggest that could be
Procured—to dangle at your bed.
Can't you recall the redbreast that awoke
You with a Christmas chirrup wise?
The panes by Jack Frost etched o'er night;
And mother's greeting, crooning in delight
At Santy's gifts; her kiss that love bespoke
More plainly than her greetings bright
To tousled heads and dancing eyes?

—H. Collett.