A modern nursery rhymester to succeed would have to write of Little Lord Jack and Lady Jill ascending one of the many beautiful eminences belonging to the ancestral estates of their parents, bearing between them, on a silver rod, an exquisitely painted Sevres vase filled with ottar of roses.
I take up my fourpenny-halfpenny magazine.

The heroine is a youthful Duchess; her husband gambles with thousand-pound notes, with the result that they are reduced to living on the first floor of the Carlton Hotel.
The villain is a Russian Prince.

The Baronet of a simpler age has been unable, poor fellow, to keep pace with the times.

What self-respecting heroine would abandon her husband and children for sin and a paltry five thousand a year?
To the heroine of the past--to the clergyman's daughter or the lady artist--he was dangerous.

The modern heroine misbehaves herself with nothing below Cabinet rank.
I turn to something less pretentious, a weekly periodical that my wife tells me is the best authority she has come across on blouses.