The difficulty of being a Gentleman.

Merciful heavens!  I myself wear three studs in my shirt.  I also am a hopeless bounder, and I never knew it.  It comes upon me like a thunderbolt.  I thought three studs were fashionable.  The idiot at the shop told me three studs were all the rage, and I ordered two dozen.  I can’t afford to throw them away.  Till these two dozen shirts are worn out, I shall have to remain a hopeless bounder.

Why have we not a Minister of the Fine Arts?  Why does not a paternal Government fix notices at the street corners, telling the would-be gentleman how many studs he ought to wear, what style of necktie now distinguishes the noble-minded man from the base-hearted?  They are prompt enough with their police regulations, their vaccination orders—the higher things of life they neglect.

I select at random another masterpiece of English literature.

“My dear,” says Lady Montresor, with her light aristocratic laugh, “you surely cannot seriously think of marrying a man who wears socks with yellow spots?”

Lady Emmelina sighs.

“He is very nice,” she murmurs, “but I suppose you are right.  I suppose that sort of man does get on your nerves after a time.”

“My dear child,” says Lady Montresor, “he is impossible.”

In a cold sweat I rush upstairs into my bedroom.

I thought so: I am always wrong.  All my best socks have yellow spots.  I rather fancied them.  They were expensive, too, now I come to think of it.

What am I to do?  If I sacrifice them and get red spots, then red spots, for all I know, may be wrong.  I have no instinct.  The fashionable novelist never helps one.  He tells us what is wrong, but he does not tell us what is right.  It is creative criticism that I feel the need of.  Why does not the Lady Montresor go on?  Tell me what sort of socks the ideal lover ought to wear.  There are so many varieties of socks.  What is a would-be-gentleman to do?  Would it be of any use writing to the fashionable novelist:—