We laugh at her, but are we so very much better? Come, my superior
male friend, have you never stood, amid your wardrobe, undecided
whether, in her eyes, you would appear more imposing, clad in the
rough tweed suit that so admirably displays your broad shoulders; or
in the orthodox black frock, that, after all, is perhaps more
suitable to the figure of a man approaching--let us say, the
nine-and-twenties? Or, better still, why not riding costume? Did
we not hear her say how well Jones looked in his top-boots and
breeches, and, "hang it all," we have a better leg than Jones. What
a pity riding-breeches are made so baggy nowadays. Why is it that
male fashions tend more and more to hide the male leg? As women
have become less and less ashamed of theirs, we have become more and
more reticent of ours. Why are the silken hose, the tight-fitting
pantaloons, the neat kneebreeches of our forefathers impossible
to-day? Are we grown more modest--or has there come about a falling
off, rendering concealment advisable?

I can never understand, myself, why women love us. It must be our
honest worth, our sterling merit, that attracts them--certainly not
our appearance, in a pair of tweed "dittos," black angora coat and
vest, stand-up collar, and chimney-pot hat! No, it must be our
sheer force of character that compels their admiration.

What a good time our ancestors must have had was borne in upon me
when, on one occasion, I appeared in character at a fancy dress
ball. What I represented I am unable to say, and I don't
particularly care. I only know it was something military. I also
remember that the costume was two sizes too small for me in the
chest, and thereabouts; and three sizes too large for me in the hat.