The Undecided Woman
By Frank Owen
It is a crime for some women to use cosmestics. It is a crime for others not to. A certain cynic has declared that old houses need new paint. But of course I do not agree with this statement. In fact I would not even repeat it. It sounds like the ranting of a jealous husband—jealous of the beauty of other men's wives.
At this point it seems fitting that I introduce my heroine, though why she should be called such I have never been able to discover. She had many names, but none suited her so perfectly as that of "The Undecided Woman."
Often the reputation of a pretty woman hangs upon the silence of her druggist. So great is this truth that it has almost become axiomatic. Had the auditor for "The Park and Tompkins' Drug Co." cared to take the trouble, he might possibly have created a scandal about Marcia Loring, for her yearly bill for cosmestics and lotions easily eclipsed the cost of a Baby Grand piano. It has often been said that any woman can be charming who "fixes up." The statement is not true, however, for you must have a foundation before you can build.
Now, if Marcia Loring rouged her cheeks a trifle, she did it so delicately as to cause but little offense even to the most puritanic of critics. She belonged to that class of women who, although endowed with more than the usual portion of good looks, nevertheless believe that with the aid of art they can improve upon Nature's handiwork. For my own part, I consider woman God's greatest creation; and as one would be shocked if an artist attempted to improve upon a masterpiece by Rembrandt or Da Vinci, one ought even more to be shocked at an attempt to improve upon the masterpiece of God. For how insignificant do these great paintings grow in comparison to a lovely, full-blooded, American woman? (Should this story ever be reprinted in foreign magazines, the nationality of the aforesaid beauty might be changed to French, English or German as the case may warrant.)
Marcia Loring was an enchantress, though unlike any that the world has ever known. She bore no resemblance to Ielen of Troy, Cleopatra, Ariadne, The Sirens or Diana. She was entirely original; not a common goddess made in some wornout mould. She was just Marcia Loring, T.U.W.—"The Undecided Woman."
She was tall and magnificent as a lily growing gloriously in a field of joy. She walked softly about, her head held high, with a certain stately grace which affected the hearts of all the men unattached and—it may be—attached also, with whom she came in contact. Had she so desired, she might have formed the apex in many a reproduction of the everlasting triangle, for her languid, jet black eyes, in contrast to her glistening golden hair could easily have secured her the position. However, she was not fond of geometry and absolutely disgusted with the everlasting triangle. In fact she never knew what she did like. She was always complaining, or regretting something she had not done. She was an "ifist" from A to Z and back again. Her complex-
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