public in their grotesque burlesques of the official garb of aviators,
elevator boys, bus conductors, train guards, and so on, their
deplorable deficiency in design was unescapably revealed. A man,
save he be fat, i.e., of womanish contours, usually looks better in
uniform than in mufti; the tight lines set off his figure. But a
woman is at once given away: she look like a dumbbell run over by
an express train. Below the neck by the bow and below the waist
astern there are two masses that simply refuse to fit into a balanced
composition. Viewed from the side, she presents an exaggerated S
bisected by an imperfect straight line, and so she inevitably suggests
a drunken dollar-mark. Her ordinary clothing cunningly conceals
this fundamental imperfection. It swathes those impossible masses
in draperies soothingly uncertain of outline. But putting her into
uniform is like stripping her. Instantly all her alleged beauty
vanishes.


Moreover, it is extremely rare to find a woman who shows even the
modest sightliness that her sex is theoretically capable of; it is only
the rare beauty who is even tolerable. The average woman, until art
comes to her aid, is ungraceful, misshapen, badly calved and
crudely articulated, even for a woman. If she has a good torso, she
is almost sure to be bow-legged. If she has good legs, she is almost
sure to have bad teeth. If she has good teeth, she is almost sure to
have scrawny hands, or muddy eyes, or hair like oakum, or no chin.
A woman who meets fair tests all 'round is so uncommon that she
becomes a sort of marvel, and usually gains a livelihood by
exhibiting herself as such, either on the stage, in the half-world, or
as the private jewel of some wealthy connoisseur.