Vogue, 1937Black is the colour, this season. Elegant and final, the line is graceful, trailing away behind to an indiscernible point at which something perfected becomes perfect nothingness. The women, rich and poor, wear svelte mourning: les dames for the attenuated spirit of this year; les bonnes for two decades of widowhood or childlessness. Even the men appear more often in sombre tones of station: weekly newsreels bring confirmation of unparalleled unanimity of habit, reflecting the monuments and the uniform cast of sky. The perfumes, too, are heavy and sleek, gardenia and smoke. The charred odour of flesh drifts through evening gardens and country houses. It recalls somewhere else -- perhaps autumn -- either in dream or in memory: I cannot say which. Here and there, someone is wearing a scarlet boutonniere, a colourless orchid with a slender chimney, not enough to note for the trades, but perhaps a harbinger, a trend.