new game, as the earnest disciple from the half generation ago learned
it, is not to reveal the dark secret that you abide by the Ten
Commandments. Man must not suspect that you are unattainable. He must
just think that he has not attained you--yet. If you want to compete
with the flappers, you've got to play by the flapper rules. Check your
conversational inhibitions!

And if by chance there be any inhibitions left over, Prohibition has
obligingly introduced new opportunities for privacy, that will help
you check them too. When a couple strays off now from group formation,
there's a perfectly good alibi available of finding a sheltered spot
for a drink. Where once it really wasn't good form to go to a man's
hotel room, now it is the national custom for the owner of hootch to
register a casket for his jewel--and then invite the young things in,
one by one. A flapper these nights can retire to that hotel bedroom
for an hour in the middle of a dance. The girl is not "talked about,"
and the place is not "pulled." Even the house detective knows that she
is innocently drinking a drink.

Thus has this rebel young generation forced out into the open country
with it all the contented young women in their late twenties and early
thirties, who may not have been feeling rebellious at all. And the
wives of forty-five also, to compete all over again for their own
husbands. For "poaching" on the wifely preserves has become the
favorite flapper sport!

"Married men," having been forbidden to unmarried young persons for
three chaste generations, our flappers, bi-product of inhibition, are
promptly appropriating the husbands. This one item of the flapper raid
on the married men has done more than the entire twentieth century put