Girls are degenerating sadly, it is said.  They are getting too masculine, too independent, too different from man’s ideal—­the modest little maid who sits at home and mends her husband’s socks.

I do not dispute the fact.  They are degenerating.  Neither, though I dislike the ideal specimen, and have a contempt for her, do I stand up for the other extreme.  I have a horror of fast masculine girls, and agree with all that is said against them.  Nevertheless, I do not consider men have any right to complain, as they are the chief cause of the deterioration of our sex.

Everyone knows that a girl thinks more of a man’s opinion than that of anyone else.  If he applauds, then she is satisfied.  She does not consider it ignominy to be termed “a jolly good fellow!” She gets praise, and in a way admiration, when she caps his good stories, smokes, and drinks brandies and sodas.  Unfortunately, she does not hear herself discussed when he is alone with his friends, or perhaps she would be more cautious in her manners and conversation for the future, for this is not the kind of girl who is

    “Rich in the grace all women desire,
    Strong in the power that all men adore.”

CHAPTER II.

On bills.

Bills!  Bills!  Bills!  Detestable sound!  Obnoxious word!  Why were such things ever invented?  Why are they sent to destroy our peace of mind?

They always come, too, when you are expecting some interesting letter.  You hurry to meet the postman, you get impatient at the length of time he takes to separate his packets (I sometimes think these men find pleasure in tantalizing you, and keep you waiting on purpose), and when he at last presents you with your long-expected missive, behold, it turns to dust and ashes in your hand—­metaphorically speaking, of course.

It is a pity such a metamorphosis does not occur in reality; for the wretched oblong envelope, with the sprawly, flourishy writing, so unmistakably suggests a bill, that you—­well, I do not know what you do on such an occasion; my letter, which I have been so anxious to obtain, is flung to the other side of the room.

How is it that bills mount up so quickly?  You buy a little ribbon, a few pairs of gloves, some handkerchiefs—­mere items in fact, and yet when quarter day comes round you are presented with a bill a yard long, which as your next instalment of money is fully mortgaged, is calculated to fill you with anything but extreme joy.

Why are the paths leading to destruction always so much easier of access than any other?  It takes so much less time to run up a bill, it is so much simpler to say, “Will you please enter it to my account?” than to pay your money down.  First the bill has to be added up, and, strange as it may seem, these shop people appear to take hours over a simple addition sum.  “Eight and