166
T il e
K i n g ’ s
B u s i n e s s
April 1932
Œearl ioQÛariwiiL ( ilrY O U N G READERS . . . B y F lorence N ye W hitwell
whom, then, rests the blame for our fashionable departures from virtue’s wardrobe ? On our admirers, of course! D. E. Q. (not that I have a geometrical figure, dear! At no point am I angular). It was because of the change in the admirers that the Freshman was willing to change her face. How different the child looked when we finally got the last layer of rouge and calcimine, or whitewash, or whatever it was, o f f ! The poor lamb has a lily-like skin that has been just crying out loud for air. Now that her poor pores have been unex pectedly exposed, she is looking ten years younger, and a hundred thousand times more of a girl who is bound for womanhood. After such a magnificent peroration, you will expect my signature. But this is merely the prelude. But before I leave this subject, I must say that a lot of girls here in In ternational have had a change of heart on being womanly since our Sonia made such a hit. Really, she is surrounded. Every spare moment she has is eagerly gobbled up. And the way she reacts is delicious. Sometimes she hardly lifts those peaceful eyelids that one watches, hoping they will lift ! No one seems to mind her popularity, because it’s so evident that she is concentrated on something or Some One outside herself. It’s getting quite wonderful around old International to see erstwhile flappers waxing noble and serious and pale. I hope it will last. At least, pray, Connie! Pray that the One in Sonia who is doing all this may some how, sometime, get hold of some of these lives and remake them as only Christ can do. Now I know you are wondering what about all these clothes in my closet and what became of Uncle Ed’s check. My dear, those clothes are doing more good than the frivolous things would have thought possible, if they could think. I’ve farmed them out. I mean I’ve broadcast my ward robe—not ethereally, but actually and materially. It was Sonia’s idea. You see, Connie, she is in touch with a great many Christians who have found each other in this tre mendous city of ours, and banded themselves together. Some are our own countrywomen, some are from Russia, some are French, and so on. Of course, many of them are fearfully poor—the wolf is not only at the door, but in side the house and threatening the pantry. Some of these Christians are earning a living— or half a living. Some of them are longing to. All of them need clothes. So mine have been cut down and resilhouetted and freshly pleated and newly draped and so on. And Uncle Ed’s check paid the needy little French woman who did the work—and the lamb is going to tithe it so she can give something to God’s work. Some needed a week’s carfare and lunch money to even start to work, and truly, Constance, I don’t know when I’ve been so happy. They’ve nicknamed Sonia “ the rich little poor girl”—all these that have been helped. As for me, all my friends seem to love me better than ever. And I’ve learned this—clothes are a help, but one can be perfectly irresistible in just one little solitary fur-edged garment, if one only enters into all the marvelous gifts and privileges that are ours. The Freshman has come in, and I have read her part of this, and she has just asked me if I do not realize that the
C L O T H E S [Continued from last month ] “ Consider the lilies” (Matt. 6 :8 ).
Connie darling: This is a new Eleanor, and not the Eleanor you knew— no play upon words intended, either! I shall never spend Uncle Ed’s check upon the “ divided skirt negligee” now. N o ! The eye of man, or rather, of woman, shall never be hold your little cousin in gownjamas. I AM CHANGED. International House is changed. That painted up, calcimined Freshman is changed. I know you’ve guessed the ‘reason. One charming girl has dared to be charmingly firm in adhering to her ideal o f Christian womanhood. We had almost forgotten— lots of us here on the cam pus, had almost forgotten of what real charm consists. Then Sonia came. There is something about the concen trated unconscious force of a single-track personality, unified by one purpose, hurling itself into life, that attracts attention. That is what Sonia is like. Some one who took her somewhere said afterward, ■ “ I feel as though I had just been entertaining the law of gravity or the theory of relativity, or something.” The poet of the Freshman class wrote lines about her being pure, pale, proud, patrician, etc., but she never seemed to notice any of this. “ What is she so intent on ?” asked the football man. “ Whatever she happens to be doing,” was all I could say. But it is not just her concentration and unawareness o f herself that is so charming. She’s free from all the little boyish tricks that we have picked up from our brothers. Somehow she’s all girl— I cannot imagine her with a ciga rette, and yet she’s strong— stronger than any of us. She has convinced me that God means for us to be genuine women, and we are nicer so. She told me that she has always been happy because my clothes are just right. By this she means that the skirts are not too silhouette and therefore too revealing. And my evening clothes are bet ter yet, she says, because they are not backless with just a couple of straps to keep them on. In short, Sonia holds to that antiquated and Victorian thing known as modesty. I told this to the Freshman girl, the night she took her war paint off. She said, “ What’s that ? How do you define it ?” So together, and hand in hand, we approached the dic tionary, and looked up “modesty”—two modern girls that did not know how to define it. . Does this striking scene register, darling? Well, even after that, we should n o t . have dared to try to put over a modesty drive if Sonia had not started us. In a way, she’s popularized it for us. Frankly, Connie, like women of all ages, we aim to please! Are daring silhouettes the toast of the hour ? We silhouette ourselves to the limit. But let some strong—and charm ing— sister woman come along, and start our admirers thinking how lovely the modest rosebud is, or the violet, or the buttercup, whichever type you happen to be, and how quickly we take to hoop skirts or their equivalent | On
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