Vagaries of the Moment.
_Park Lane._
Dearest Daphne,--This is completely a _jewel_ season. People may be just
as glittery as they like. Heads, necks and arms don't monopolise the
pretty-pretties now, and, what with jewelled tunics, girdles, shoes,
stockings and "_Honi soits_," as well as gems on what little corsage and
skirt one may be wearing, one's jewel-box may be quite _quite_ emptied
every evening. Indeed, if we hadn't plenty of jewels I sometimes wonder,
my dear, what our _grande toilette_ would consist of! And this has led
to the launching of "Olga's" latest triumph, the lock-up evening wrap--a
charming affair, thickly plated with sequins and fastening with the
dearest little _real_ locks all down the front from the throat to the
toes!
_À propos_, Beryl Clarges had such a darling adventure the other night.
She came out of the opera, meaning to go on to the Flummerys' and one or
two more places, with all her pretty-pretties on, and fastened securely
into her lock-up wrap. She got into her car suspecting nothing. But it
wasn't her own chauffeur and footman at all, Daphne! It was two
delicious robbers who'd managed to get possession of her car; and they
drove her out to Hampstead Heath and held a pistol to her head and said,
"Now, my lady, you've got on about thirty-thousand pound worth of
sparklers. Hand 'em over quietly and we won't hurt you." And Beryl
didn't turn a hair (she says) but answered, "You silly boys! I'm locked
into 'Olga's' new thief-proof wrap and you can't get anything but my
shoes. My maid always locks me in and lets me out, and she's got the
keys and you've left her behind!" And they tried to wrench the wrap
open, but it resisted, and Beryl put in some piercing g's in alt., and
help came and the robbers fled. And now she's the woman of the moment,
and her picture, standing on Hampstead Heath in her lock-up wrap,
defying ten robbers, is in all the weeklies.
Some people say it was all managed by her publicity agent, and others
declare it was a put-up thing between Beryl and "Olga." Anyhow, the new
"_manteau de sûreté_" is absolutely booming, and _entre nous_, _chérie_,
people who never wear anything more valuable than sequins and paste are
quite falling over each other to get thief-proof wraps!
There's quite a little rage among girls just now for _boxing_. Juno
Farrington, the Southlands' girl, is responsible for it. She's been the
acknowledged leader of the _jeunes filles_ since she first came out and
has set the fashion among them in everything, from inventing a new
cocktail to chaperoning her chaperon. (It was Juno who first started the
custom at parties of doing all the after-supper dances in the street and
finishing up the night at an early coffee-stall.) The Duchess of
Southlands was making her little moan to me the other day, and I told
her she ought to be so proud of dear Juno having _temperament_ and
_personality_. "Temperament and personality are all very well, Blanche,"
said the dear little invertebrate woman, "but worried mothers wish they
didn't develop till after marriage! If Juno's grandmamma knew how
_modern_ she is she'd leave everything she has to charity." Indeed it's
a constant effort for her parents to hide their girl's modernity from
the dowager--a dear old disapproving piece of antiquity whose youth
dates from remote ages of blushing, fainting, accomplishments and
downcast eyes. She's an immense fortune to leave, and Juno (so far) is
her heiress; but the girl seriously imperilled her prospects during the
very last visit the Southlands had from the dowager. The latter was
doing her everlasting knitting one day when she called out, "Here, Juno,
child, come and help me. I've dropped a stitch." And Juno went to her
and looked about on the floor and said, "Where did you drop it, Gran? I
don't see it anywhere!"
I'd a little dinner-dance on Thursday and Juno was one of several girls
who brought their mothers. "Oh, my hat and feathers!" she called out as
she looked over the menu; "none of your _à la_ dishes for _this_ child!
Sorry, old girl, but I'm in training. Will you order broiled steak and
pale ale for me? I'm going to box Tricky Sal, the coloured girl-boxer
from the Other Side. Wonder how she'll like my upper-cut and left-hand
jab! Isn't it glorious, people? I've got my ambition! I'm a White Hope!
See if we don't fill the Colidrome at our Grand Boxing Matinée!"
"Girlie," pleaded _la mère_, "you're joking! You wouldn't dream of
boxing except before just relations and intimate friends!" "Relations
and intimate friends be _somethinged_!" cried Juno. "I'm going to box in
front of the good old public! And the gate shall go to your Holiday Home
for Melancholy Manicurists, mother dear." "My only one, my Melancholy
Manicurists are quite _quite_ in funds," urged the duchess; "we want
nothing for them." "Don't worry your little head, dear," said Juno;
"they've _got_ to be helped and that's all about it!"
So the matinée at the Colidrome is to come off. The _pièce de
résistance_ will, of course, be Juno Farrington and Tricky Sal. Then the
Dunstables' two girls, Franky and Freckles, have promised a sparring
match if their mother doesn't get to hear of it down at Dunstable Castle
(they're going out with their aunt this season). Beryl and Babs will
wrestle. And they want me to give a show with the Indian clubs (no one
does them quite as I do, but I'm not a bit vain about it). Every seat is
sold already!
I believe people never had such a horror of bores and banality as they
have now--owing chiefly to the influence of our Anti-Banalite Club.
Silent dinners, at which one communicates only by wireless, are a good
deal done and are quite nice and restful, the general atmosphere (if
someone tainted with banalism seems inclined to speak) being, "I know
what you're going to say. Please--please--_please_ don't say it!" On a
little dinner of this kind at Bosh and Wee-Wee's last week there
descended a terrible man, a far-away cousin of Wee-Wee's, who hardly
ever leaves his _terres_ in some remote part of the country--the sort of
creature, you know, dearest, who always has a colour and a smile and an
appetite and who writes to the papers to say he's seen a bush growing
upside down or has heard the cuckoo singing in the night or has plucked
and eaten something in his garden in December! He began by _mentioning
the weather_! People quite jumped in their chairs, and Popsy, Lady
Ramsgate, gave a little scream. He followed this up by saying _town
seemed full_; and then, _à propos_ of having run up against a college
friend in town, informed us that _the world was a small place after
all_! When this last enormity was let loose upon us Norty said solemnly,
"Where's the nearest point policeman?" And, instead of taking the hint,
the creature began to hold forth about "that fine body of men, the
London police!" Wee-Wee was in sackcloth and ashes about it afterwards.
She says that sort of thing is in his family.
I had a serious talk with Norty about the Irish problem yesterday, and
he tells me there's a whisper in the Lobbies that _certain persons_ have
already sold the kinema rights of the first Irish Parliament to a film
company for a _colossal_ sum and, as the money is spent and the company
is _incessantly_ jogging them to deliver the goods, they're bound to put
the thing through! It's said that someone asked a Member of the
Government point-blank whether there was any truth in the rumour, and
was told, "The answer is in the negative-affirmative, Sir!"
Ever thine,
Blanche.
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