With Parisian gowns on the spot
where they were created, and where - so she assumes - they will
naturally be cheaper than elsewhere. Those among us who no longer
harbor these fancies are the men and women who have tried these
experiments.
After she has paid the tariff on them a woman is pained to note
that her Paris gowns have cost her as much as they would cost her
in the United States - so I have been told by women who have invested
extensively in that direction. And though a man, by the passion
of the moment, may be carried away to the extent of buying English
clothes, he usually discovers on returning to his native land that
they are not adapted to withstand the trying climatic conditions
and the critical comments of press and public in this country.
What was contemplated as a triumphal reentrance becomes a footrace
to the nearest ready-made clothing store.
English clothes are not meant for Americans, but for Englishmen
to wear: that is a great cardinal truth which Americans would do
well to ponder. Possibly you have heard that an Englishman's
clothes fit him with an air. They do so; they fit him with a lot
of air around the collar and a great deal of air adjacent to the
waistband and through the slack of the trousers; frequently they
fit him with such an air that he is entirely surrounded by space,
as in the case of a vacuum bottle. Once there was a Briton whose
overcoat collar hugged the back of his neck; so they knew by that
he was no true Briton, but an impostor - and they put him out of
the union. In brief, the kind of English clothes best suited for
an American to wear is the kind Americans make.
I knew these things in advance - or, anyway, I should have known
them; nevertheless I felt our trip abroad would not be complete
unless I brought back some London clothes. I took a look at the
shop-windows and decided to pass up the ready-made things. The
coat shirt; the shaped sock; the collar that will fit the neckband
of a shirt, and other common American commodities, seemed to be
practically unknown in London.
The English dress shirt has such a dinky little bosom on it that
by rights you cannot refer to it as a bosom at all; it comes nearer
to being what women used to call a guimpe. Every show-window where
I halted was jammed to the gunwales with thick, fuzzy, woolen
articles and inflammatory plaid waistcoats, and articles in crash
for tropical wear - even through the glass you could note each
individual crash with distinctness. The London shopkeeper adheres
steadfastly to this arrangement.
