criticised the cloaks and their
wearers in the Enclosure at Aswood one couldn't help murmuring with a
small sigh, "Who is sufficient for these things!" People who have the
cloak fastened on _in just any way_, my dear, are simply begging the
question; in its true inwardness, in its loftiest development, the
cloak should be a separate creation, kept in its place only by the
grace and knack of its wearer. There should be _character_ about it, a
fascinating droop, a sweat crookedness that can only happen when it is
worn with the art that--you know the rest.

Shall I confide to you my little secret, dearest? Would you know why
it is given to your Blanche to be easily best of the few women who do
really _wear_ the cloak? When I'm ready, all but nay cloak, I run away
from Yvonne down the stairs; she follows, carrying the cloak, and when
she's beginning to overtake me she throws the cloak and I catch it on
my shoulders. Result--I'm the envy and despair of all my best beloved
enemies!

People have been trying to find new places to wear their watches. A
small watch on the toe of each shoe (plain for day wear, jewelled for
the evening) had quite a little vogue, though as watches they were no
good, for no one could see the time by them. Then little teeny watches
on the tips of glove-fingers were liked a little. But the latest
development is that Time is _demode_, and anyone mentioning hours and
half-hours is stamped as an outside person.

Isn't this a _fragrant_ idea about our not being to blame for
anything we do, because it's all owing to the _colours_ we live with?
Everybody's _charmed_ about it. Instead of going to _lawyers_
when things run off the rails a little, if one just called in a
_colour-expert_ all sorts of horrors might be avoided, for he would
prove that people are like that owing to the colours of their curtains
and upholsteries, and aren't to blame themselves, poor, dears, the
very least little bit! The Thistledown _menage_, for instance. For
ages it's been tottery, because Thistledown never understood Fluffy,
and Fluffy, poor little thing, seemed to understand everybody except
Thistledown. We've all been so sorry for her, for several times he's
been on the point of dragging things into public. And now it turns out
that nothing is Fluffy's fault and that, if she hadn't always had her
own, own room done in pinky-bluey shades, she might have been quite a
serious domestic character! T. says, if that's so, she'd bet