n hospital, pending an inquiry into her sanity?

It would seem that any man, especially one who writes books, could be
sure of a number of women friends. Among these there ought to be at
least one whom he could take into his confidence. The gentleman
novelist might go to the chosen one and say: "My heroine, in moderate
circumstances, is going to the matinee with a girl friend. What shall
she wear?"

Instantly the discerning woman would ask the colour of her eyes and
hair, and the name of the town she lived in, then behold!

Upon the writer's page would come a radiant feminine vision, clothed
in her right mind and in proper clothes, to the joy of every woman who
reads the book.

But men are proverbially chary of their confidence, except when they
are in love, and being in love is supposed to put even book women out
of a man's head. Perhaps in the new Schools of Journalism which are to
be inaugurated, there will be supplementary courses in millinery
elective, for those who wish to learn the trade of novel writing.

If a man knows no woman to whom he can turn for counsel and advice at
the critical point in his book, there are only two courses open to
him, aside from the doubtful one of evasion. He may let his fancy run
riot and put his heroine into clothes that would give even a dumb
woman hysterics, or he may follow the example of Mr. Chatfield-Taylor,
who says of one of his heroines that "her pliant body was enshrouded
in white muslin with a blue ribbon at the waist."

Lacking the faithful hench-woman who would gladly put them straight,
the majority of gentlemen novelists evade the point, and, so far as
clothes are concerned, their heroines are as badly off as the Queen of
Spain was said to be for legs.

They delve freely into emotional situations, and fearlessly attempt
profound psychological problems, but slide off like frightened crabs
when they strike the clothesline.

After all, it may be just as well, since fashion is transient and
colours and material do not vary much. Still, judging by the painful
mistakes that many of them have made, the best advice that one can
give the gallant company of literary craftsmen is this: "When you come
to millinery, crawfish!"

Maidens of the Sea

Far out in the ocean, deep and blue,
Where the winds dance wild and free,
In coral caves, dwells a beautiful band--
The maidens of the sea.

There are stories old, of the mystic tide,