Mundane Musings

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 252, 14 January 1928, Page 16

Mundane Musings

She Drives ’Em Mad! “She is the type of woman who drives a man mad,” said an innocent bachelor to me. . “Ah!” I sighed sympathetically. l know what you mean.” He nodded. “Yes—all passion and mystery; eyes like deep pools and a ■figure like a panther.” I withdrew my previous remark. 1 did not know. The type of woman with whom I am acquainted who drives a man mad is not like that. Yet. I doubt not that she can drive a man far madder than the sinuous syren my friend described! And, what is more, she can do it without the slightest effort. She does not need help of moonlight: she does not spend hours dressing; she has not to speak in a “low throaty voice.” She can manage it anywhere and at any time. It just comes natural to her. Now I will describe her. To begin with she is married. This is inevitable, though probably she possessed her strange power while she was yet a spinster; but until she is married she has no opportunity of exercising it. She has to have a husband, for he fills the necessary role of the man driven to desperation. I met such a man the other day. The poor fellow was striding down the road, muttering to himself. “You know,” he said, seizing me by the arm, “how much I wanted to beat young Binks at golf. Binks, the scratch player.” “Yes, yes,” I assured him. “To-day I did it. And what do you think my wife said when I told her?” “She wouldn’t believe it?” I suggested. The poor fellow ground his teeth. “She said ‘Have you ordered to-night’s fish?’ ” I could just see her saying it. Placidly dismissing his great news without a word, just ignoring the matter as one might the chatter of an infant in arms. H. de Vere Stacpoole has w’ritten a wonderful story on this topic. It is a tale of an explorer who goes abroad with a frieid in search of an unknown moth. He suffers incredible hardships, and his friend loses his life in the quest. At last he returns alone —but with the moth; and his wife, not knowing what the wrappings contained, throws the specimen away. The husband does not tell her what she has done, he is afraid of what he might say, till two evenings later, when they are alone together. And then he relates the tragedy from start to finish, beginning with the horrors they experienced, including the death of his friend, and ending with her action in making the whole sacrifice null and void. At length he pauses. His wife says nothing; and when he looks at her, expecting imploring apology, she is asleep. That story has as a title the inevitable demand; “Did Kressler kill his wife?”

In these days of ready-for-service models that are so sure a guide to the clever home dressmaker, one rarely visits one of the big representative houses without making notes of individual creations that give a spur to amateur inspiration. Take, for instance, a charming little collection recently shown. Among the coatfrocks was a most likeable gown in the very smartest new flamingo shade, with fronts of grey. The colour alliance in itself was worth absorbing! Then there was a delightful afternoon gown in the same attractive red-pink hue —emphasising its modishness —which had cross-over fronts of ha,nd embroidery rather in the manner of an old-world shawl. The matron was beautifully catered for in an evening gown caught in the front with a most cleverly made cluster of shaded dahlias. Among a plethora of black satin frocks, one noted the prevalence of skilful silver lace trimmings. This black and silver ensemble is immensely a la mode.