street I look like every other man, and every other man looks like me. How gorgeous it would be to wear the velvets and satins that men wore in the eighteenth century; to have powdered wigs, and frills on one's shirt!

In a world given over body and soul to science and mechanism and steel and stone it is woman alone who has kept alive the spirit of living beauty. I wonder if many women realize the startling incongruity between themselves and, let us say, the Ford plant at Detroit?

I have to travel around a lot, and when I get to a strange city I am always in a state of infinite boredom from the dust and smell of railways, and the journey's view of civilization in the act of progressing.

After going to a hotel and washing my face, I take a walk in the streets just for the purpose of looking at the women. I do not know any of them; I do not attempt to flirt with them; I merely want to see them. It is like walking through a flower garden. Then I come back to my hotel refreshed and ready to tackle the bus- iness in hand. Many other men do this. I am not the only one.

The first and most important duty of every women, according to my judgment, is to look as beautiful as she can. There is al- ready too much intellect in the world, too many grand projects, too much machinery, too many things that are impressive but not charming. There never can be too much beauty; and if woman does- n't furnish it I don't know who will.

This primary obligation of looking beautiful is one that the modern woman is taking very seriously, and that is most gratifying. At a dinner recently I sat next to the curator of a great and dis- tinguished art museum. He remarked that the attendance at his

museum was not what it used to be; fewer people come.

I told him that I thought people do not go to art galleries in such numbers any more because the women of today are living pictures. What is the use of looking at dead ladies in their frames on a wall when one may see fresh and vivid ladies in the street?

I am not vivid and beautiful, and the thought annoys me. My only recourse is to look at somebody else who is vivid and beauti- ful--and, thank Heaven, there are a lot of women to look at. I

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