girl, his assiduous attentions are an impertinence, to say the least of it.

Owing to the scarcity of men, as I said before, they are inclined to give themselves airs, and numbers of young women do the seeking and the hunting, while the poor youths are scared of being captured, and, when they are secured at all, it is unwillingly. Must not that be a hateful blow to the girl’s pride when she thinks of it!

The legitimate way is to render yourself as utterly desirable as possible, and then fate will bring you the particular needle your kind of magnet draws.

There are all sorts of points about manners which add to a girl’s charm. When you come into a room pay respect to elder people; it will not take up much of your time, and is a gracious tribute of youth to age. And when you go out to dine or lunch do not sit silent if you happen to be bored with the person who is next you; you owe it to your hostess to try to make things as agreeable as possible. And when you stay about in country houses remember this also: You have been asked because the hostess likes you, or you are a credit to her, or she is under some obligation to return some civility from your family. In all three cases you ought to make good by proving you are a most desirable guest. Try to acquire prestige, so that none of the nicest parties are complete without you; then you can choose which you prefer to go to. But prestige is not acquired without tact and perfect manners on all occasions. The tendency of all modern society is toward vulgarity and display, with a ruthless, cynical, brutal worship of wealth, snatching at any means to the end of luxury and pleasure. People accept invitations from those they despise, for no other reason than because they are rich and the entertainment will be well done. It is awfully cheap, is it not, Caroline? and a long way from my basic principle which I explained to you, that one must not in any way degrade oneself. Try to be kind to everyone you come in contact with and make them feel at home, however humble they may be, if they are your guests; be gracious and thoughtful for their comfort and pleasure—you need never be familiar or gushing. Be simple and modest; all pretense is paltry and all boasting is vain; nothing but the truth lasts or gains any respect.

I should like to tell you a little story, Caroline, before I finish this letter, as an instance of really exquisite manners.

A year or two ago I was staying in the North with a very great lady; we were all going in to Edinburgh for the day. My friend was a little short-sighted, and while we stopped at the bookstall before crossing over the viaduct to the departure platform I noticed a rather humble-looking little woman nervously and anxiously trying to bow to my hostess, who did not perceive her. After we had mounted the stairs and crossed the line her daughter told my great lady of this, and how Mrs. Mackenzie, the new doctor’s wife, had looked quite hurt. My friend was so distressed that she made an excuse to return to the bookstall, so that she might casually pass the little woman again and bow and speak, but not to hurt her feelings by making her feel she had done it on purpose. I went with her, and while buying an extra paper she glanced up sweetly at the humble-looking little woman, and said:

“Oh! how do you do, Mrs. Mackenzie? I hope your little children are well, and the Doctor; so glad to see you are quite recovered from the influenza I heard you had,” and then, with a gracious smile, she drew me on, and we had to run back up the stairs to be in time for our train. Such manners as these are the only true and beautiful ones, Caroline, because they spring from a kind and tender heart.

Your affectionate Godmother,

E. G.

III

January, 1913.

I HAD meant, my dear Caroline, to write to you upon the interesting subject of marriage in this letter, but before I can commence upon that, I must speak of something else, and you must promise me not to be offended at what I am going to say, since we both desire the same end—your success and welfare. The fact is, your picture, which you tell me was drawn by a friend, has just reached me. You say it is more like you than the only photograph I possess of you, taken when you were fifteen; and it is because of your assuring me of this that I cannot remain silent—for, Caroline child, I must confess it shocks and disconcerts me, and makes me feel that I must be very frank with you, if you are ever going to be able to attain that position which we both hope that you may.

Even if the drawing was perhaps done some months ago, and you have altered your style of hair-dressing since then—still, that you were ever able to have looked like that—you in Paris!—proves that your observation and taste are not yet sufficiently cultivated to make you anything of a success when you come out in May. Thus I must speak plainly and at once.

Now, let us pretend that the little girl I see before me is not you at all, but some abstract person; and let us dissect her bit by bit: her type, her style, her suitability—or want of it—her attitude and the general effect she produces. And then let me suggest the remedies and alterations which can improve her.

Firstly, her type, Caroline, child, is not distinguished. She has a large-eyed, dear little profile, which may be very pretty as a full face, and which, framed in appropriately done hair, could succeed in being picturesque, but in itself, with its little snub features, is insignificant. She has rather a big head, and thick, bushy dark hair—which I grieve to observe she has done in a large bun of sausage curls!—a fashion which was never in vogue really among ladies, and for over two or three years has been relegated to the pates of “roof-garden” waitresses and third-class shop assistants. And further to provoke my ire, although this girl in the picture is drawn in an ordinary morning skirt and boots, she wears a light-colored ribbon in her hair! Caroline, dearest, where could her eyes and observation and sense of the fitness of things have been—with the example of the exquisite Parisiennes in front of her—to be able to perpetrate these incongruities! But there is more to come! Her skirt is a rough, useful serge skirt, and her boots, although the heels are too high, are not a bad shape—but with this she has put on one of those cheap, impossible blouses, cut all in one piece—“kimono,” I believe they are called—with short sleeves and an unmeaning black bow tacked to the cuff! Now, a shirt should be a workmanlike thing, as neat as a man’s, and with long sleeves finished by real shirt-cuffs with links. It can be composed of silk, flannel, or linen, but if it is a shirt—that is, a garment for the morning, and to be worn with a rough serge or tweed winter suit—it should have no meaningless fripperies about it. If you want trimmed-up things, have a regular blouse, and then wear it with an afternoon costume. Short-sleeved blouses should only be indulged in in the summer, and when they are made of the finest material. And even then, if the wearer has what the little girl in this picture seems to have—thick wrists and rather big hands—it is wiser to avoid them altogether!

Now that I have torn her garments and hair-dressing to pieces, Caroline!—I must scold about her attitude. She is doing two of the most ungraceful things: putting her arm akimbo and crossing her legs! You may say every girl does them—which may be true, but that is no proof that they are pretty or desirable habits! To digress a moment—I went to a party the other night, a