There Are Only Two Kinds Of Men

Infatuation Is One Of Those Slightly Comic Illnesses Which Are At Once So Undignified And So Painful That A Nice-minded World Does Its Best To Ignore Their Existence Altogether, Referring To Them Only Under Provocation And Then With Apology, But, Like Its More Material Brother, This Boil On The Neck Of The Spirit Can Hardly Be Forgotten Either By The Sufferer Or Anyone Else In His Vicinity. The Malady Is Ludicrous, Sad, Excruciating And, Above All, Instantly Diagnosable.

A Great Deal Has Been Written About The Forthrightness Of The Moderns Shocking The Victorians, But There Is No Shock Like The One Which The Forthrightness Of The Victorians Can Give A Modern.

Why It Is That A Garment Which Is Honestly Attractive In, Say, 1910 Should Be Honestly Ridiculous A Few Years Later And Honestly Charming Again A Few Years Later Still Is One Of Those Things Which Are Not Satisfactorily To Be Explained And Are Therefore Jolly And Exciting And An Addition To The Perennial Interest Of Life.

Once Sex Rears Its Ugly 'ead It's Time To Steer Clear.

Love So Seldom Means Happiness.