Government fix notices at the street corners, telling the would-be
gentleman how many studs he ought to wear, what style of necktie now
distinguishes the noble-minded man from the base-hearted? They are
prompt enough with their police regulations, their vaccination
orders--the higher things of life they neglect.

I select at random another masterpiece of English literature.

"My dear," says Lady Montresor, with her light aristocratic laugh,
"you surely cannot seriously think of marrying a man who wears socks
with yellow spots?"

Lady Emmelina sighs.

"He is very nice," she murmurs, "but I suppose you are right. I
suppose that sort of man does get on your nerves after a time."

"My dear child," says Lady Montresor, "he is impossible."

In a cold sweat I rush upstairs into my bedroom.

I thought so: I am always wrong. All my best socks have yellow
spots. I rather fancied them. They were expensive, too, now I come
to think of it.

What am I to do? If I sacrifice them and get red spots, then red
spots, for all I know, may be wrong. I have no instinct. The
fashionable novelist never helps one. He tells us what is wrong, but
he does not tell us what is right. It is creative criticism that I
feel the need of. Why does not the Lady Montresor go on? Tell me