The Letters of Annabel Lee

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 24, 30 December 1927, Page 6

The Letters of Annabel Lee

My dear Elisabeth, At fashion shows in London, they make a special showing of frocks from three to four guineas, all of one price, and paraded by pretty mannequins. An excellent idea, isn’t it, doing away with all necessity for making pertinent inquiry as to the burning question of cost, perhaps to be answered with a lofty "Fifteen and a half guineas, moddam, for this Little Model Gown. So useful for the mawnings!’ Dress designing must be a pleasant and profitable occupation, one would think, and not difficult in these days of simplicity of line and beauty of colouring and fabric. How elever with her clothes is the svelte and capable daughter of to-day. In fact, whatsoever her hand findeth to do she does rather well. But the eyes of youth do not pore much over books, the Oxford Book of Verse is an unknown territory, and the Best Short Stories for 1927 as though they were not. But for ingenuity in heightening her attractiveness from the pictorial point of view and capability in matters domestic, she is hard to beat. One charming frock lately appearing on the Quay had flame-coloured roses on softly floating skirt panels, the jumperish "body" being of that lovely tint that is not apricot or biscuit or sand, but a blending of all three. One girl with a fair, round face and honey-coloured hair, did her holiday marketing in an immaculate coat of black, with slashes of scarlet suede; that "inverted dome’ she called a hat being of an Egyptian swarthiness of hue and fitted her head as tightly as though it had been gummed on, while two lank, flat feathers, one on each side, clung closely to her radiant cheek. Quite an amusing hat this, and vastly suited to its plucky wearer. By the way, have you tried Xantha? It is an artificial silk, very sheer and shining and chic, it does not ladder, it does not drop, and its colours do not come out in the wash. All of which great and good qualities render it eminently suitable for princess petticoats, and:-even more intimate garments. One is growing a little tired of the Shingle Ubiquitous, and the same-

ness of the sweetly slender maidens of the mode. Perhaps when the New Year has grown old, and gone the way of all years, we shall be braiding our Titian locks, or stringing them with bands of rosy hue, like the obedient maiden when her mother bade her bind her hair in the days when to be filial was to be in the fashion. In "Young Men in Love," Mr. Michael Arlen is very glib and diverting, setting forth in his charming prose the vagaries of more of his lovely and bedworthy (his adjective, not mine) ladies, whom, obviously, we are expected to find of a charm quite ravishing, no matter how the conventions are torn to shreds. Lately I saw one of his stories adapted to the sereen, "The Ace of Cads" being most effectively acted by the accomplished Frenchman, Adolphe Menjou, that suave fellow, as the daily press has it, whom easy sophistication and insolent poise of a consummate man of the world never fail to interest and intrigue. For a real thriller for lazy summer days, I recommend to you "No Other Tiger," by that clever teller of tales, Mr. A. E. W. Mason. The story rushes along breathlessly, the Bad Man being a veritable creation, and the plot and denouement of extreme interest and originality. In another vein, and of exceeding gracefulness of expression and spontaneous sincerity, is "The Rustle of Spring,’ by Clare Cameron. This is a chronicle of the mind and soul of a girl child amid sordid surroundings. Gradually her dormant awareness of beauty and nature, spirit and human achievement is awakened, and her quickening response to whatsoever things are lovely traced with delightful sureness of touch and comprehension of the sensitive reticence of youth. An unusual story, and a charming one. Why not send for "Disraeli," by Andre Maurois? You already have his "Ariel," the beguiling romance based upon the career of the poet Shelley, that charming and unstable genius who showed such remarkable catholicity in his domestic affections. Do you remember how he joined the

luncheon party after bathing, having forgotten to resume the garments of civilisation? The guests were slightly disconcerted, but the erratic dreamer of dreams in no wise perturbed. Perhaps he was better built than some of us! At the moment things are quiet, everyone has finished buying, and for the nonce the shops may as well put up their shutters. We have reached "peace after storm, port after stormy seas," the lull between one tempest and the next, What a strange and lovely serenity descends upon" the social whirligig when in the churches, on Christmas morning, are sung once more the old, old hymns, the light filters through stained glass, the peace that passes all understanding sinks into the soul, and we think of friends who are leal and true and wish them good luck in the name of the Lord. For the poor, the sick and the sad, it may be the New Year will bring a happier dawning; and if it happens that our own luck is out, as is highly probable, the fame and fortune tarry long, there is consolation in the quaint old lines: He that is down, needs fear no fall, We that is low, no pride: He that is humble, ever shall Have God to be his guide. And so we go on hoping that the sun will shine, and we'll get there in the morning, as is cheerily chuckled, or something like it, by one of those strange stringers of doggerel who abound in America. The clocks are chiming the lateness of the hour; boats and trains are to be wrestled with in the near future; into the small, but not too small suitvase are to he pushed _ the fewest possible number of frocks and frills compatible with something suitable and any and every occasion. And so, my Elisabeth, with good wishes to your houseflold, particularly the "orchestral accompaniment of children" (as the Countess of Oxford neatly puts it), I must hasten away, | hoping you will "hold me in your heart of hearts, as I do _ thee,

Horatio." Your

ANNABEL

LEE