Do women criticise each other to their faces? Do they find fault with their chocolates, their looks, their clothes, their jests? No, not until the front door is closed; till then, they slobber wumgush. (See Varm.)

And yet, if one man offers another a cigarette, the tobacco may be called “rotten!” without peril or anger.

Men have small use for wumgush; their compliments are profane ridicule and simulated enmity.

A man calls his best friend a “damned fool”; a woman calls her worst enemy, “My dear!” (See Alibosh.)

How women must fear each other! They smooth their rival’s hair; lovingly, they readjust her jabot and pat her hands lingeringly.

“How well you’re looking, my dear!” ... and yards and yards of wumgush.

“Oh, I’ve had such a wonderful time! How charming of you to have asked me. Now, you must come to see us.”—Wumgush. (See Gubble.)

Wumgush is the frothy foam of society chatter.

Wumgush is the sunshine through which fly the wasps of sarcasm. (See Flooijab.)

The xenogore is a person who doesn’t belong, but doesn’t know it. It is the shopper who paws over goods, and prevents customers from buying; an extra woman, who drops in when you want to play whist; or the creature who appears at dinner-time, when you have just enough for the family and no more; who invites himself into your motor-car, crowding you miserably. He annoys you when you are talking business, and spoils the sale.

Children in the room, when you are calling, are xenogores. (See Kidloid.)

Someone talking to you, when you want to listen to that interesting conversation opposite, is a xenogore.

A xenogore is likely to be anyone of your wife’s relations or friends; but it’s sure to be that girl you have to escort home, and don’t want to. (See Uglet.)

A girl who accompanies a couple in love is a xenogore. (See Vorge.)

People used to be yabs on religion, but you seldom see a gospel yab, now that Dowie has passed from sight. Still, there’s a pretty pronounced Christian Science yab on in idealistic circles. Business yabs, yes; but your wife won’t stand for it at the supper-table, unless your guest is a good, heavy buyer. (See Eegot.)

The musician lives in a yab-world of his own. He doesn’t understand ordinary English.

Some men are yabs over women, some have a horrible baseball yab that will last over way into February; but the worst of all is a yabby actor, telling you how good he is. (See Leolump.)

Polonius, had he lived, would have said to Hamlet, “Still yabs about my daughter!”

The White Slave yab is almost over and the Sex yab is mute in the magazines; the Bigyab is Tango with a capital Q.

The egoist is yabs about himself; the Englishman is yabby over sport, the Hebrew over money. Me, my yab is “Burgess Unabridged.” (See Gloogo.)

Did you ever see a woman trying to move a Morris chair—or carry a rocker through a screen door? (See Wijjicle.) She is struggling with a yamnoy. She can carry a baby with ease and skill, but it’s a yamnoy to a bachelor.

The yamnoy is a sheet of window glass carried on a windy day; a dripping umbrella that you don’t know where to place; a bird-cage or a bowl of fish, that you don’t dare trust in the moving van. (See Uglet.)

To yamnoy is to move a ladder, or place it upright, or to carry a lawn mower home from the city.

Yes, you have to mind your p’s and q’s in a Christian Endeavor yod, or in the house of your best girl. Why, in some places, there is even a yod on the tango! (See Ovotch.)

Don’t you love to get into a place where there’s a yod on smoking? A temperance yod is not so bad—except that you can never get good food where they sell soft drinks.

Remember that restaurant they started a couple of years ago where evening dress was required? That business-suit yod killed it.

Poor little slangy Lulu, with the henna hair! When she was introduced to Millionaire Willie’s mother, she had so many yods on her that she didn’t dare squeak!

Remember that low-necked yod your aunt used to have? Why, nowadays, she wears double-décolleté in a trolley-car. No, those sanctimonious old yoddery days of yore are well gone by. Your wife smokes cigarettes now—your daughter’s skirts are slit up to the knee. However, there’s still a yod on woman suffrage, and we may hold ’em down. (See Varm.)

You find the yowf sitting at the Captain’s table on shipboard; and at the speakers’ dais at banquets. He is top-heavy with importance, and soggy with self-esteem.

Among the yowfs present were: The Mayor of the Small Town; a state senator; the Dock Commissioner; a bank president, two consuls, the Commandant of the Navy Yard, a police judge, and the Treasurer of the Wild Cat Club. (See Edicle.)

The yowf is long on dignity, and short on charm; but he has to be waited on first. The female yowf has a 46 bust measure, and is important mainly on account of her clothes.

It is always a yowf who gives the reception to visiting celebrities. He travels all over the world, and somehow, is able to mingle constantly with people with real brains. (See Machizzle.)

The zeech is usually a good talker and a bad conversationalist; he colors the party, you have to take his tone. He may bring in the sunshine but he destroys those subtler half-lights which give atmosphere.

Curiously, the zeech is a great mixer and yet he will not mix; things must go his way. He is dynamic but has nothing in reserve. (See Spuzz.)

There are no surprises in the zeech—you know what he is going to do and say. You will laugh, but in the end be bored. He makes the party “go,” but prevents its being an occasion.

The zeech is conspicuous, brilliant—but exhausting.

You invite the zeech to dinner, and the first time you are enthusiastic about him. By the third, however, your wife ventures to say, “Oh, let’s not have him this time!” (See Cowcat.)

The zobzib “means well”—but deliver us from our friends! He comes too early and he stays too late. He is always in the way. He calls just before dinner, but he will not sit down and dine with you. He is always “just going.” He is fond of picking out a tune on the piano with one finger.

When a zobzib enters, you just know he is going to break or tip over something, or spill claret on the table cloth. He will surely slip on the rug. He is a bull in a china shop, he is as hilarious as a wet Newfoundland dog. (See Splooch.)

The female zobzib gives you advice, “for your own good.” She asks you to buy tickets for church fairs and charity concerts.

A zobzib cannot help missing the train, he cannot help forgetting the theatre tickets. That’s why he’s a zobzib. (See Rawp.)

I’ve often thought I’d like to be a drunkard, so some nice, sweet zobzib would marry me, to reform me.