And so the experienced woman wears her expensive clothes for other women, and produces her “effects” for men.  She wears scarlet on a cold or raw day, and the eyes of the men light up when they see her.  It makes her look cheerful and bright and warm.  She wears gray when she wants to look demure.  Let a man beware of a woman in silvery gray.  She looks so quiet and dove-like and gentle that she has disarmed him before she has spoken one word, and he will snuggle down beside her and let her turn his mind and his pocket-book wrong side out.  A woman could not look designing in light gray if she tried.  He dotes upon the girl in pale blue.  Pale blue naturally suggests to his mind the sort of girl who can wear it, which is generally a blonde with soft, fluffy hair, fair skin, and blue eyes—­appealing, trustful, baby-blue eyes.  Did you ever notice that men always instinctively put confidence in a girl with blue eyes, and have their suspicions of a girl with brilliant black ones, and will you kindly tell me why?  Is it that the limpid blue eye, transparent and gentle, suggests all the soft, womanly virtues, and because he thinks he can see through it, clear down into that blue-eyed girl’s soul, that she is the kind of girl he fancies she is?  I think it is; but some of the greatest little frauds I know are the purry, kitteny girls with big, innocent blue eyes.

Blazing black eyes, and the rich, warm colors which dark-skinned women have to wear, suggest energy and brilliance and no end of intellect.  Men look into such eyes and seem not to be able to see below the surface.  They have not the pleasure of a long, deep gaze into immeasurable depths.  And so they think her designing and clever, and (God save the mark!) even intellectual, when perhaps she has a wealth of love and devotion and heroism stored up behind that impulsive disposition and those dazzling black eyes which would do and dare more in a minute for some man she had set that great heart of hers upon than your cool-blooded, tranquil blonde would do in forty years.  A mere question of pigment in the eye has settled many a man’s fate in life, and established him with a wife who turned out to be very different from the girl he fondly thought he was getting.

Yet whenever I complain to experienced married women of how discouraging it is to wear your good clothes for unappreciative men, they beg me not to be guilty of the heresy of wishing things different.  If they have married one of the noticing kind, they tell me harrowing tales of gorgeous costumes having been cast aside because these critical men made fun of, or were prejudiced against them, and “made remarks.”  And they point with envy to Mrs. So-and-So, whose husband never knows what she has on, but who thinks she looks lovely in everything, so that she is at liberty to dress as she pleases.  When a woman defers to her husband’s taste, she sometimes is the best-dressed woman in the room.  And sometimes another woman, dressing according to another man’s taste, is the worst-dressed.  So you see you never can tell.  “De mule don’t kick ‘cordin’ to no rule.”