DAILY TRIALS OF A MANNEQUIN

Dominion, Volume 19, Issue 119, 13 February 1926, Page 22

DAILY TRIALS OF A MANNEQUIN

FUTILE CUSTOMERS The patience of an uncomplaining Job, and the stamina of a long-dis-tance runner, are some of the virtues necessary for a mannequin. To walk clothed in silk upon a pile carpet seems the life of a princess; but in reality it is that of a philosopher. I find the work of the stage easy to that of a mannequin. Think of a few of our difficulties and trials—walking miles in evening dress; hearing stout ladies discuss the merits of oui dresses; pretending not to hear anxious males discussing the price of our creations with prospective female buyers; pretending to ignore the pins with which the fitters perforate us. I like the kindly old lady who asks me whether 1 am sure 1 get enough to eat aiid whether I have a comfortable home; although it makes me a little anxious whether I am really getting too thin and makes me wonder whether my home really is comfortable. A look in” the glass reassures me somewhat, and I then wish her charity would extend far enough to ask me to sit down, for I have been showing her totally unsuitable dresses for nearly an hour. The woman who cannot make up her mind is the greatest trial; ten times 1 go into the little room and change my frock; ten times 1 walk in front of her; ten times she says they are divine, and asks the price—and then goes, to return to-morrow, as she says, and indeed, as she does sometimes, nice again to put me through the parade and to leave, having bought at the best a blouse—and at the worst a felt hat which she beautifies with her own diamond tiara.

Then, one’s friends—one’s rich friends—who look on the dress show as an entertainment, and who drop in as they go to the club to have a chat and a smoke before lunch. 'They tell me the news, they ask me to lunch, they take up my time, and then leave me to the frowns of the vendeuse, who wonders what is the use of rich friends with closed purses. The men are funny, the knowing ones the funniest, who finger the stuffs with the touch of experts, and who order pyjamas and dressing gowns with the minute care and unerring taste of a society beauty. Then there are the nervous ones, who sit and smoke and stare at the mannequins, and don’t quite know whether to shake me bv the hand or not, and are fantastically amusing about the names of the dresses.

ne economical lady, who comes in and orders nothing, and tells me of the terribly high coft of living, and advises me to economise a little by putting down one of my cars, makes me realise that life after all is a comedy and not the tragedy that so many of our modern writers impress upon us.