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Our Women's Section
Timely Notes and Useful Hints.
Mother and Daughter.

By Helen

As a soft mist imperceptibly veils the sunset glow, and the first tang of evening is felt in the air, Miss Eighteen, swinging her bag of clubs, dashes over the threshold. She hurls her hat (flecked felt, vagabond shape) on the hall table and strides into the drawing room. Note her shoes—tan grain Derby with moulded rubber soles and heels—which have borne her comfortably, with exhilaration, up hill and down dale during the long day. No pointed shoes here, to cramp delicate bones and muscles, no high heels to thrust the foot unnaturally forward. Let us hope Miss Eighteen is as sensible in the choice of all her footgear.

While we muse on the feet, Miss Eighteen has been retailing the joys and sorrows of the day's play to her Mother, who is seated among the scattered tables, ash-trays, scorers, attesting a successful afternoon of bridge. Miss Eighteen moves towards the cheerful fire, but not for warmth—oh, no! Grasping the poker, and throwing off her green tweed jacket with the brown leather buttons, she successfully plays a screwed-up-ball of paper (used bridge scorers) over two ash-trays and between Mother's bridgebag, in illustration of her best shot of the day. As she swings, we notice the graceful line of her figure in its smart green and white pin-striped silk blouse and hip-fitted green tweed skirt with inverted pleat fullness.

“Good bridge, ducky? Won't be a minute changing. I like your frock, Mater?”

Mater leans back with a reflective smile. These young things, so sure of themselves, so occupied with a million and one things, so fit. That was it, fitness—the secret of their charm. Probably she would be feeling more energetic herself had she played a round of golf instead of entertaining the crowd to bridge.

Mater rises and moves slowly to the door, mechanically shaking a cushion as she passes. We see now whence Miss Eighteen acquired her slim grace. Mater might pose for “What the Smart Matron is Wearing this Season”—wind-swept satin in a rich Burgundy shade—satin with a cross crinkle that catches the light in such a way that it is impossible to imagine it made up other than as Mater wears it—with long, simply draped folds and smooth moulded lines.

Splashings from the bathroom, and snatches of song culled from the latest American dance programmes, show that Miss Eighteen is freshening up after her strenuous day. Presently, in a dark patterned silk bath-robe that any boy would not be ashamed to own, she dashes across to her room. Drawers slide open and slam shut, but there is no more song, merely an abstracted whistle—the business of the moment is too important.

Here she comes at last, ready for the evening (a two-seater will be calling for her after dinner). Miss Eighteen's dance frock in choral pink satin features a high neckline in front, a low back finished with a velvet bow in a deeper shade of pink at the waist-line, rows upon rows of tiny frills for sleeves, a skirt flaring from the knees in godets composed of innumerable frillings to match the sleeves. Miss Eighteen is wise in her generation, and does not ape the barbaric type—scintillating materials made up in outré styles. She has even discarded a bandeau of twisted coral velvet and silver lamé which did indeed look rather charming. However, there it lies on her dressing-table. On the bed, ready to be worn, is a charming white fur cape with coral velvet facings to the collar.

As Miss Eighteen swings down the stairs, she is sure she is going to enjoy her evening—and so are we.