[A drawing-room. Fanny Motley, who has been making a long call upon her bosom friend, Alice Langley, has at last risen to go.]

Alice. Oh, don’t go yet. I haven’t told you half the things I wanted to.

Fanny. Oh, I must go. I’ve got to go home to dress for Mrs. Fresco’s dinner. Do you suppose Jack will be there?

A. He told me he was going.

F. Oh, I do hope he won’t fail. I do so want to joke him about his sleigh-ride with Ella. Do you suppose she wore her hat with the orange plumes? It’s awfully unbecoming to her. It makes her look just salmon color.

A. She always had perfectly hideous taste. Do you remember that dowdy gown of green plush and mauve tulle she wore to Kate West’s german? It was a perfect dream of horror.

F. Yes; didn’t she look per-fectly hideous? Well (moving toward the door), come and see me just as soon as you can.

A. I’ll come in to-morrow before sewing-circle, if I can, to hear about the dinner. Don’t be too hard on Jack. You know he’s aw-fully thin-skinned.

F. Oh, I won’t be hard on him.

A. (pausing as they reach the door) Is that the boa you had Christmas?

F. Yes; isn’t it lovely? But I told mamma I knew she got it because she knew I’d got to have one, and she’d got to give me something.

A. How mean of you!

F. Oh, she didn’t mind. She’s used to it. Be sure and come in to-morrow.

A. Yes, I will. Oh, did I tell you that Tom Jones has invited Sophia Weston to go to the opera Saturday night?

F. You don’t mean it. Has he, really?

A. Yes; Ethel Mott told me this morning.

F. Do you suppose he is in earnest, after all?

A. Oh, there’s no telling about him. Frank says they bet about it at the club.

F. About him and Sophia?

A. Yes; whether he’ll propose before Lent.

F. How per-fectly horrid! Men are the worst creatures. I declare, I think those dreadful clubs ought to be suppressed.

A. So do I. They do say the most outrageous things. I don’t see how they can sit and listen to them.

F. I don’t, either.

A. And they talk over all the scandals.

F. Yes, it is simply diabolical. How perfectly sweet it is to have a brother who will tell you all about it.

A. Isn’t it? It is almost as good as going myself.

F. Will never tells me a single thing (moving on into the hall). Well, be sure you come, and come as early as you can. Good-bye. (Kisses her.)

A. Good-bye. That boa is just as becoming as it can be.

F. Do you think so? Clara Martin’s makes her look as if she hadn’t any neck at all.

A. Oh, you can wear anything.

F. Thank you, dear. But then you can afford to say so, because you can wear anything yourself. Would you ask Jack about the orange feathers?

A. Oh, he wouldn’t know. Men never know what girls have on,—except Clarence Key, and he’s a perfect man-milliner. Did I tell you what he said to Kate West at the Westons’ tea? I’d have scratched his eyes out.

F. No; what in the world did he say?

A. You won’t repeat it? Because I told Kate I wouldn’t tell. She was so furious she had to tell somebody.

F. I’ll never tell. What was it?

A. You know that tailor-made gown she wears? The one made of gray corduroy? Well, Clarence Key asked her if she got it so her husband could have it made into riding trousers, after she was done with it. Did you ever hear such impertinence?

F. He didn’t really!

A. He really did!

F. Why, Alice! I should think she’d have killed him. I would.

A. So would I.

F. (putting her hand on the handle of the door) Well, good-bye. Give my love to Blanche when you write.

A. Yes, I will.

F. I shall see you to-morrow?

A. Yes. Good-bye.

[Fanny opens the door, and a blast of cold wind rushes in.]

F. Ugh! How awfully cold it is. I wish I had taken the carriage.

A. I went over to Ethel Mott’s this morning, and I thought I should freeze to death.

F. I hope I sha’n’t get pneumonia or anything. I want to go to the Claytons’ ball.

A. Oh, do tell me; what are you going to wear?

F. (returning and closing the door) There, that is one thing I wanted to ask you about. I want you to go in white, and I’ll wear that black lace I had made in New York last winter. I’ve never worn it here at all, and that’s the most stylish gown I ever had in my whole life.

A. Wouldn’t that be striking? We could go in together. I’ll have a new white tulle, and wear my pearls. I’ll make Aunt Alicia lend me hers, too.

F. That will be too lovely.

A. And you’ll wear diamonds?

F. Oh, no. I wore jet in New York. Not a single thing but black about me; not even my fan-sticks.

A. How per-fectly enchanting!

F. Will you do it?

A. Of course I will. I’ll buy the stuff to-morrow.

F. We’ll talk about it when you come to-morrow. (Opening the door.) I must go this very moment, or I shall never get to Mrs. Fresco’s.

A. What are you going to wear to-night?

F. That cardinal I showed you the other day.

A. Isn’t that rather gorgeous?

F. Oh, it’s going to be a big dinner, you know; and there’s lots of black lace on it.

A. It must be awfully becoming.

F. It is. If Jack knows anything, he ought to see a difference between that and orange plumes.

A. Ethel Mott told me— Oh, do come in a moment. I’m simply freezing to death, and I must tell you this.

F. (once more coming in and closing the door) Well, do be quick. I ought to have been home long ago.

A. Oh, you’ve lots of time.

F. But it takes so long to do my hair.

A. How are you going to wear it?

F. The same old way. I wish somebody’d invent some new style,—something real nice and becoming. I asked Uncle Calvin the other night if he hadn’t seen some pretty styles in China, and I wish you could have seen the pictures he brought out!

A. What were they like?

F. Like? They weren’t like anything. Why, I just gasped over them! Ships, and butterflies, and all sorts of things; all made out of hair, right on your own head.

A. Not really?

F. Yes, just as I tell you. I never saw anything so frightful.

A. It must have been perfectly ghastly!

F. Well, good-bye. Come early. Oh! what were you going to tell me?

A. To tell you?

F. Yes,—that Ethel Mott said.

A. Oh, she said that Kate West has been corresponding all winter with that West Point cadet she met at Newport last summer.

F. No!

A. Yes!

F. Why, Alice Langley, do you mean it?

A. Ethel said she knew it.

F. I don’t believe it.

A. That’s what I said.

F. But she’s as good as engaged to George Maynard.

A. I know it.

F. I think it’s perfectly awful.

A. So do I.

F. Do you suppose he knows it?

A. Oh, no. He’s so gone on Kate, he thinks she’d never look at anybody but him.

F. I never heard anything so perfectly amazing in my life.

A. And sometimes, Ethel says, they write each other two letters a week.

F. Two letters?

A. Two letters.

F. In one week?

A. That’s what Ethel says.

F. I wonder she doesn’t expect the ground to open and swallow her. I never heard of such deceit. Why, she’s going to lead the german with George at the Wentworths’ next week.

A. I know it.

F. Well, I’ve always said Kate West couldn’t be trusted out of your sight. (She turns, and opens the door.) I do believe that every time I open that door it is colder. I know I shall die before I get home,—or freeze my ears.

A. Think how dreadful it would be to freeze your ears. I knew a girl at boarding-school that froze her ears skating one vacation, and they hung down like rags. We used to tell her they were like a spaniel’s, and call her Fido. She’d get perfectly furious.

F. I don’t wonder.

A. It was awfully good fun to see how she tried to pretend she didn’t care; and then, when she couldn’t stand it another minute, she’d catch up the very first thing she could lay her hands on, and throw it.

F. (descending the steps) I would if I’d been she. Could she wear ear-rings?

A. Oh, not for the longest time,—as much as a year, any way. When we wanted to be especially pleasant, we told her that frozen ears always came off after a time.

F. How horrid!

A. But it was such fun!

F. Good-bye. Be sure and come to-morrow.

A. Yes.

F. And come early.

A. Yes; I’ll come right after luncheon.

F. Don’t you think your gown ought to be made just like my black one?

A. Yes; that would be more effective.

F. And then we can wear our hair just alike.

A. It’s a pity you couldn’t have some black flowers.

F. Yes. I don’t see why the florists don’t get up some. Phew! It’s as cold as Greenland. Do go in. You’ll get your death cold.

A. Good-bye. Don’t tell what I told you.

F. No; not to a soul. How did Ethel Mott find out about the letters?

A. She wouldn’t tell.

F. Do you suppose she really knew, or only guessed?

A. She said she really and truly knew.

F. Isn’t it amazing?

A. It is per-fectly incomprehensible.

E. Well, good-bye. I hope you’ll have good luck at the Whist Club to-night.

A. Oh, do come back till I tell you what Mr. Fremont said about the Whist Club.

[Fanny returns to the foot of the steps, and Alice goes half way down to meet her.]

A. He said he wasn’t going to the Whist Club any more, and I asked him why not, and he said he was tired of taking girls down to feed, when they’d been talking so all the evening that he couldn’t play.

F. Why, I never heard anything so insulting!

A. I told Mr. Van Bruch, and he said the trouble was that Mr. Fremont wanted all the time to feed himself.

F. Good. Do you know Colonel Graham says that he went to the Vaughns’ to play whist, and they held a conversazione instead. Wasn’t that clever?

A. Yes; awfully.

F. Good-bye. I’ll tell Jane to lay out my black dress, so it will be all ready when you come.

A. I’ll try and get time to go down town in the morning, to see what I can get to make my gown of. It’s an awful shame you had to hurry away so; I had lots of things to say.

F. Well, I really had to go, you know. You can’t keep a dinner party waiting, of course.

A. Oh, of course not. Good-bye. I’m awfully glad you came.

F. Good-bye. I’ve had a lovely time.

[She at last really goes, and Alice, after lingering a second to regret the things she has not said, retires and closes the door of the now pretty well aired house.]