BEWARE THE MODERNIST POET
There is a time in every girl’s life—usually around Spring—when she falls in love with the Professional Poet. He wears his hair in the manner made popular by Irene Castle, and he believes in free speech, and free verse, and free love, and free everything. His favorite game is reading from his own works—such selections as his “Lines to an Un-moral Tulip.” This type of poet does not go in very strongly for marriage—it cramps his style—with the other ladies.
THE FUTURIST—WITH A PAST
Then there is the Futurist Artist. He is really a great factor in a girl’s education: he can show her how, at a glance, to tell the difference between a Matisse painting and a Spanish omelette, and he knows just what the vorticists are trying to prove. He dresses like the property artist in musical comedies and he is simply ripping at designing costumes—he tells you how Lucile is battling to engage him if he would only descend to commercialism. Avoid them, girls, avoid them! They always have a past!
WITH THIS RING
There is unquestionably much to be said on the side of the Munitions Millionaire, as a husband. The course of true love certainly does run much more smoothly if it’s travelled in a Rolls-Royce. Such trifles as diamond tiaras, Russian sables, chintz-lined limousines, and ropes of pearls help Love’s young dream along considerably. The only trouble with a Munitions Millionaire is that his neck is a little too much inclined to bulge over the back of his collar.
THE RIGHT MAN—AT LAST
But, after all, there’s no use in advising a girl what to do and what not to do, in choosing a husband. The safest way is just to let Nature take its course. She needn’t worry about the thing at all,—she is sure to know the Leading Man, the moment he makes his entrance. He doesn’t even have to be near her—if she just knows he’s back from patrol duty in a distant land, and on the telephone, the cosmic urge will make her break all existing running broad jump records, in order to get to the telephone.