Field Of Honor

Hair-pulling, face-scratching, back-biting--such effeminate methods of settling an argument are not for the dashing beauties of the Danube. At dawn last week two Budapest ballet dancers, Mary Radvanny and Sussanne Winghardy, rivals for the favor of a stalwart young Budapestian, repaired to a clearing in a secluded wood near the city. A friend went with them, carrying a long green baize bag. Soon the clearing echoed with the harsh scrape of steel, the clear ring of blade ion cup hilt. The enraged beauties engaged in no vapid stabbing of the air. Like most able dancers, they had long taken fencing lessons. Panting, with clenched teeth and tousled hair, Mary Radvanny and Sussanne Winghardy skillfully thrust and parried until a well-timed lunge in tierce pinked the Winghardy shoulder.

"My God!" she cried as the blood spurted down her arm, "I can never wear evening clothes again!" Then, dismayed, vanquished, she fainted.