And the pity of it is, that quite frequently the person upon which these adornments are lavished is really not worth the embellishment, and would indeed be far better served and make a far better show in the least elaborate of garments. For, notoriously, the physique of the Englishwoman of the middle and upper classes is not now what it was. In height, in figure, in suppleness and grace of build, the Scottish woman can give her English sister many points. In the matter of facial beauty, too, the Englishwoman cannot be said particularly to shine. At a Drawing-Room, at the opera, the beauty of England spreads itself for your gaze; and the amazing lack both of beauty and the promise of it appals you. If we are to believe the society papers, there is not an ugly nor a plain-featured woman of means in all broad England. Every week the English illustrated journals give you pages of photographs, beneath which you may read in entrancing capital letters, "The beautiful Miss Snooks," or "Lady Beertap's two beautiful daughters." Yet the merest glance at those photographs convinces you that Miss Snooks is about as good-looking as the average kitchen-wench, while the two beautiful daughters of Lady Beertap have faces like the backs of cabs. The fact is, that the so-called English beauty is a rare thing and a fragile thing. Fully seventy-five per cent. of Englishwomen are not beautiful to look upon. Of the other twenty-five per cent., one here and there--perhaps one in a thousand--could stand beside the Venus of Milo without blenching. For the rest, they have a girlish prettiness which accompanies them into their thirtieth year, and sickens slowly into a sourness. At forty, little Chiffon, who was so pretty at twenty, has crow's-feet and flat cheeks, and a distinct tendency to the nut-cracker type of profile. CHAPTER VII THE SOLDIER "With a tow-row-row-row-row-row for the British Grenadiers!" Which, of course, means the English Grenadiers, inasmuch as there never were any Scottish Grenadiers. To-day, however, the English do not sing this song. Their grandfathers delighted in it, and the tune still survives as a soldier-man's march. But when the modern English wish to celebrate the English soldier vocally, they do it in their own decadent, bathotic way. They have an idiot-song called _Tommy Atkins_. The chorus of it goes somewhat in this wise: Oh! Tommy, Tommy Atkins, You're a good 'un, heart and hand; You're a credit to your nation And to your native land. May your hand be ever ready! May your heart be ever true! God bless you, Tommy Atkins! Here's your country's love to you!