ir
brothers' friends. Any combination is good enough to "shoot a card."

In London the men have gone a step further. It is not uncommon to hear a
young man boast that he never owned a visiting card or made a "duty" call
in his life. Neither there nor with us does a man count as a "call" a
quiet cup of tea with a woman he likes, and a cigarette and quiet talk
until dressing time. Let the young women have courage and take matters
into their own hands. (The older ones are hopeless and will go on
pushing this Juggernaut car over each other's weary bodies, until the end
of the chapter.) Let them have the courage occasionally to "refuse"
something, to keep themselves free from aimless engagements, and bring
this paste-board war to a close. If a woman is attractive, she will be
asked out all the same, never fear! If she is not popular, the few dozen
of "egg-shell extra" that she can manage to slip in at the front doors of
her acquaintances will not help her much.

If this matter is, however, so vastly important in women's eyes, why not
adopt the continental and diplomatic custom and send cards by post or
otherwise? There, if a new-comer dines out and meets twenty-five people
for the first time, cards must be left the next day at their twenty-five
respective residences. How the cards get there is of no importance. It
is a diplomatic fiction that the new acquaintance has called in person,
and the call will be returned within twenty-four hours. Think of the
saving of time and strength! In Paris, on New Year's Day, people send
cards by post to everybody they wish to keep up. That does for a year,
and no more is thought about it. All the time thus gained can be given
to culture or recreation.

I have often wondered why one sees so few women one knows at our picture
exhibitions or flower shows. It is no longer a mystery to me. They are
all busy trotting up and down our long side streets leaving cards.
Hideous vision! Should Dante by any chance reincarnate, he would find
here the material ready made to his hand for an eighth circle in his
_Inferno_.

No. 21--"Like Master Like Man."

A frequent and naive complaint one hears, is of the unsatisfactoriness of
servants generally, and their ingratitude and astonishing lack of
affection for their masters, in particular. "After all I have done for
them," is pretty sure to sum up the long tale of a housewife's griefs. Of
all the delightful inconsistencies that