Meg In A Hurry.

“Yes. Coming! Lend me a handkie, will you? I've another glove somewhere—”

Rummaging frantically, Meg achieved the glove, incidentally rumpling a pile of freshly-laundered undies. Half-shutting the drawer, which dripped a disconsolate stocking, Meg glanced with distaste at the littered dressing-table—hair clips, jars and their tops, a golf tee, two pennies, last night's corsage posy, a pink Wool-worth ticket. Deciding that she hadn't a minute to tidy the mess, she sped down the stairs and arrived at the front door seemingly unruffled, cool and fresh as the spring day itself.

To Meg, outings always seemed to start with a rush. One engagement came on top of another, and in between she never seemed to have that extra minute or two for collecting herself and her belongings. As now, there was always the intention of “clearing up” later, before the evening engagement, but usually the rush of preparation lasted until a ring at the door-bell announced the arrival of her escort. Another despairing look at the signs of her progress, a mental note to “tidy up” before bed, and Meg was off again. And, of course, at bed-time, tired youth longed only to lay her head on the pillow, after the necessary attentions to teeth, complexion, hair, had been paid. After all, she would feel fresher in the morning! And so on!

I am not inveighing against untidiness, but against the unnecessary strain Meg imposes upon herself. The last minute rush, the idea at the back of her mind that she should catch up on things, her natural hatred of disorder, combine to weary her, mentally and physically, far more than she realizes.

Method is the only cure, as any busy person will tell you. She must re-adjust her time schemes to allow for adequate preparation for any social occasion. To rise a few minutes earlier improves the time-table for the whole day. She must impose on herself a rigid discipline as regards things and places. Just as she would never dream of retiring without first removing cosmetics, so she must regard as impossible the throwing of an evening frock over a chair with the vague idea of hanging it up next morning. Her evening bag must be placed in its drawer—not a drawer, but its drawer.

This drawer business is very important. Hunting for handkerchiefs among nightgowns, disentangling scarves from stockings, is a nerve-racking business. Drawer space should be allotted according to plan. Toilet requisites should be kept in a top drawer, and not scattered over the surface of the table. Beads, ear-rings, clips, etc., should have their own box or boxes. Handkerchiefs, collars, belts, scarves, gloves and stockings (neatly rolled) should each occupy a set place. Lower drawers should be kept for lingerie. Once positions are decided, an effort for a week or two will make the returning of everything to its place, immediately after use, habitual. The test of drawer perfection is the finding of any article, without fumbling, in the dark.

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