The Fussed-up Girl

Did you ever meet her, the fussedup girl ? Possibly I should ask you il you ever waited for her to get ready. If Job had invited her to go to the theatre, or to some concert or reception, nis patience would have given out long before she was ready, lor the fussed-up girl is in fact never ready. Even when she makes her appearance in the drawing-room with gloves and bonnet on, she is not ready. She wlll require irom one to live minutes more before the mirror to complete her fussing up. There is no mistaking this type of girl, tío matter whether you meet her in the street car, at a place of public amusement, or at a private house. Strange to say, the fussed-up girl is never tidy. She wlll be loaded down with fancy pins, bits of ribbon, and curious looking jabots, ruches, fichus, ruffles, puffe or odds and ends, and yet she wlll not have a clean and wholesome look about her, says Clara Belle, in the Washington Post. Her bonnets will be overtrimmed, her hats too heavily garnitured, her fan and lorgnette will iiave a bit of old ribbon tied to them, her handkerchief will not match her costume- in a word, she will have a crazy-quilt look about her- twenty different eolors and no two of them n harmony. And if you catch a glimpse of her shoes, ten chances to one they will be square-toed or have some peculiarity about them. Hor way of arranging her hair, too, is invariably intricate. Every liair seems to have a particular place to be in, and her ïrizzes are provokingly even on her forehead, so that they take on a woodeny look. You sit wondering how in the world she ever coaxed them to stay just so. As to her rings, they look like th ewindow of a pawnbroker's shop, such a mixture of stones, sizes, shapes, styles, and such an ingenuity in their arrangement. You wonder how long it required her to study out that arrangement and also where in the world she picked up such old-fashioned earrings, brooch, and chatelaine pin. She makes up, too, without the slightest bit of art, often penciling an eyebrow so as to give it a curious Mephistophelian upward twist. Looked at from the front she reminds you of a eheap ivory miniature, but this make-up ends abruptly at the ears; back of them her neck presents the appearanee of old ivory. Even her teeth have the same fussedup look, the gold fillings being in the strangest places and oí the strangest shapes, seemingly a study in dental skill how to put her teeth in harmony with her collection of finger-rings. In marnier the fussed-up girl is stiffer than buckrum. She smiles as if she were afraid to crack an enainel mask. She talks as if she feared her lips might part with their rouge. In perfumes, too, she is original. Usually she exhales a stupefying odor of sandal wood, ambergis, or musk, and her handkerchief is a pronounced ecru. In her reading she affects heavy literature, Carlyle's "Sartor Resartus," or Comte's "Positive Philosophy," and she invariably says "I-ther" for either, "not-able" for notable, "'litera-toor" for literature, "dra-ma" for dralima, "is-sue" and "tis-sue" for ish-shu and tish-shu, "on-ly" for ownly, "eck-onomical" for economical, and ''bean" for been. She's a rare show.