THE TROUBLE WITH MYRA.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19198, 14 June 1924, Page 11

THE TROUBLE WITH MYRA.

(By January Mortimer, in. the Daily Mail.) My friend Myra is a very learned woman. She is a Bachelor of Arts and a Bachelor of Science, and her brain is a biological etroehopse. Myra “ bobs her hair as a protest against “hyperfenxininity, and she wesirs huge hornrimmed spectacles. Three years ago she told me that she was “ wedded to science.” “ Besides, said she, “I have the masouline-protest-complex. I ought to have been a man.” Last week I went to return a book that Myra had lent me. I found her in a curiously perturbed state of mind trying to write a paper to bo read before an audience of teachers. ‘‘l have entered a strange phase ox emotional instability,” she tried to explain. “My brain is in a kind of fugue, and I have developed insomnia.” “ That sounds bad,” I interjected. “It is most inconvenient, to say the least," said axyra, throwing down her pen. ‘‘lf my diagnosis is correct, I have minor symptoms of hysteria, with a tendency to alternate elation and mental depression.'' _ t “ How long have you felt like this! I asked. “ Oh, for weeks. I can’t concentrate. My mmd wanders when I sit down to work. I always thought ‘ that 1 bad a strong heart; but I have noted some very unusual cardiac sensations, hyperexcitability, and intensified reaction to stimuli. lam also in a condition of morbid expectancy, bordering upon anxiety —neurosis. I am more ailoctablo than 1 have ever been in the whole of my life. I oven felt like crying this evening.” _ “ Your symptoms are common at this season of the year,” 1 said. “ They are significant and specific.” ” What do you mean? ” asked Myra, as a blush spread over her face and her eyelids drooped behind the hom-rimmed glasses. “ It’s no use, Myra,” I laughed. “ You are in. love! ” I glanced at a bunch of narcissus in a vase on the desk. “ I’m utterly astonished at myself, ‘ murmured Myr», covering her face with her hands. She opened a drawer and took out a photograph of a brawny young man in a Norfolk jacket and plus-fours, i was looking at it when the door was flung open and Myra s suitor entered boisterously. “Now then, old thing, you ought to no ready for the Oobham’s jazz in half an hour,” he cried. Myra jazzing! Myra, B.Sc. and 8.A., in love with this breezy boy! I could hardly believe the evidence of my eyes and ears. Evidently Myra is recovering from the “ masculine-protest-complex. And 1 shall not be surprised a she lets her hair grow long. What an interesting world it is!