“I think the topic for to-day’s discussion should be ‘The Pioneer New Woman,’” observed the president of the Teacup Club. “Have you all got that down in your note-books? You don’t know how it pleases me to see your methodical ways; it shows the real intellectual advancement of our club. Why, for my part, I have gained so much that I am not afraid to discuss any subject with any one.”

“We have advanced,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “I feel it, too. By the way, has any one seen my note-book? I haven’t had it for three weeks—are you sure that none of you have gotten it by mistake? I forgot to put my name in it, and—”

“I know where it is,” said the girl with the classic profile. “You loaned it to Kate—she told me so herself,—in order that she might read up on some of the topics we have already discussed, and so qualify for admission to the club.”

“I shall blackball her, for my part,” spoke up the girl with the dimple in her chin. “She is so frivolous that she would drag down our high standard. Besides, she once left me out when she gave a luncheon, and told people that it was because she had all the decorations in yellow, and feared they would not shade with my complexion.”

“Oh, well, Kate is color blind, any way,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.

“Yes, and she is a little deaf, too,” remarked the president, “and really does not know just how sharp her own speeches sound.”

“Perhaps not,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, “but I shall blackball her just the same. By the way, Alice is giving a birthday dinner party next week—twenty-six covers, one for each year. Clever idea, isn’t it?”

“For whose birthday?” asked the girl with the classic profile. “Her own? Ah, really, I knew she was forgetful, but this is carrying it too far.”

“I wonder why otherwise sensible people will tell such stories about their ages,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said the brown-eyed blonde.

“Neither do I,” said the girl with the classic profile.

“Of course, it doesn’t matter who knows my age, as yet,” said the brown-eyed blonde.

“Nor mine,” remarked the girl with the classic profile.

“Nor mine, either,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.

“No, indeed,” said the brown-eyed blonde; “I got twenty-two birthday gifts the other day on my twenty-second birthday.”

“Are you twenty-two? Why, so am I!” cried the girl with the classic profile.

“Just my own age, too,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.

“And mine; how odd!” cried the girl with the dimple in her chin.

“That is one of the advantages of the new womanhood,” said the president; “its beautiful candor. Now, I tell everybody that I am twenty-two years old.”

“I wish you would tell Mrs. Van Tompkins,” said the girl with the classic profile. “She wouldn’t take my word for it the other day, though I told her that I couldn’t be mistaken, as you had told me so at least six times in the last eighteen months.”

“Cora asked me the other day if there was any age qualification for membership in this club,” remarked the girl with the eyeglasses, during the slight pause which followed the last speech. “She says she has not yet celebrated her twenty-first birthday.”

“Born on the 29th of February, then, wasn’t she?” asked the brown-eyed blonde. “Yes, it is true that the new womanhood is breaking down old traditions. We are not at all jealous of each other now.”

“Of course not,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “we have learned to value our own attractions properly. Why, the other day I stopped Amy and Fred to tell her there was a dab of powder on her nose. Formerly another girl would have been jealous of her dazzling complexion, and let her go on as she was.”

“How sweet of you,” murmured the girl with the eyeglasses; “and yet, I doubt if she was really grateful.”

“That was not the question, dear; I—”

“Oh, dear,” broke in the president, “if my watch is right it is time to adjourn, and yet. Why, here is Elise! What has made you late to-day?”

“A discussion with a stupid man,” cried the girl with the Roman nose. “Only think, he actually said that no woman was mathematician enough to count up her own birthdays correctly. I was so enraged—why, he said that ‘I am twenty-two’ is the same thing to a girl as ‘Polly wants a cracker’ is to a parrot, or the Spanish fandango to a guitar player—but what on earth is wrong? You all look so queer.”

“It’s nothing at all, dear,” said the blue-eyed girl. “We were just looking at your new hat, that is all. I think your watch must have stopped, Evelyn dear, for mine is only—”

“Perhaps it has,” said the president. “Tom talks so much, sometimes, that I quite forget to wind it.”

“Oh, well, it needs a rest sometimes,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I know that mine—”

“Oh, dear!” said the president, “I know I am a fright to-day, and nothing but a sense of duty has brought me here. Why, I actually have not had a chance to curl my hair properly for six days, and—”

“Been getting ready your new gown, have you?” said the girl with the classic profile. “I only wish I had mine off my mind.”

“It wasn’t my new gown,” said the president. “It was Tom. He has had a heavy cold, and the house smells so strong of camphor that there will not be a moth within a block of it this year. I don’t mind being bidden a tragic farewell at mid-day, but I do mind being waked up at midnight for that purpose.”

“But it was nothing serious, was it?” asked the brown-eyed blonde. “I thought the other day, when he came to the top of the stairs and called to you that he was dying, that a man who was breathing his last would manage to do it with less noise.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said the president. “That was nothing to the time he waked me up at one o’clock in the morning to tell me that he was dying, but if I let that mug-faced young preacher who used to come to see me, officiate at his funeral he would come back and haunt me. It took a hot-water bottle, a mustard plaster, two hot toddies, and the camphor to quiet him that time.”

“Humph!” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “I wonder why a man always thinks a cold or a boil fatal—when he has it?”

“Perhaps he doesn’t himself,” said the girl with the Roman nose; “but he always wants the women of the family to act as if they did.”

“Very true,” said the girl with the eyeglasses; “but do you know what Dolly does? As soon as her husband complains of being ill she begins to weep and tear her hair and lament that he will die, she knows he will. That frightens him, and when she insists upon putting him to bed, and giving him a bowl of hot ginger tea (which he detests), he pretends that he was only joking, and flees to the office, when she calls him up every half-hour to ask how he is. She says he seldom complains of his health nowadays.”

“You know my sister Amelia, don’t you?” said the girl with the classic profile. “Well, her husband had a heavy cold last week. He waked her up at two o’clock to tell her that he was dying, and that he knew he had not been a good husband to her, and could not go without her forgiveness. She wept, and said that he had not been very nice to her, and had never given her half enough money. Upon this, the dying man sat up, and began to argue the case. From argument they passed to something warmer. He went down to the office next day, and hasn’t said a word about dying since.”

“I wouldn’t mind Tom thinking he was dying once in awhile,” said the president, “if he’d only allow me the same privilege occasionally. He won’t, though; he comes in and says, cheerfully, ‘Oh, you’ll soon be all right. You should have seen how much worse I was once when I had it, and never missed a day at the office, either!’ The last time he did that my throat was too sore for me to reply properly, and I really thought I should die of rage.”

“And no wonder,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “As if a woman couldn’t always stand more than a man, anyhow! For instance, I wonder how many of them could go out in thin shoes, and without overshoes, as we do. And yet you never hear a girl say that she has caught cold in that way.”

“Never,” said the blue-eyed girl; “we have too much fortitude. My cousin Edith’s husband used to be always complaining of his health, until this last winter, I wondered what had caused his miraculous recovery, until she told me a few days ago. She was away from home, and received a telegram, saying that she must come at once if she wanted to see him alive. The message was delayed, being improperly addressed, and when she reached home, expecting to find him dead, he met her at the door. It seems that he had called in a new doctor, who was the cause of his miraculous recovery. He said he would never have another physician to prescribe for him as long as he lived.”

“Completely cured, eh?” said the president.

“Not that time. Next time he was ill, and the new doctor appeared, he turned out to be an old admirer of Edith’s. Her husband is frightfully jealous, and Edith’s potential second husband is a very real person to him. Edith, as nurse, always went out into the hall to talk with the doctor after his call. She says she is sure that she did not remain away so very long; but when she came back, after the first visit, her husband sulked; after the second, he raved; and after the third, he got up, declaring he’d live, if only to spite them both. And now, the doctor points to him as an example of his remarkable healing powers,” she added.

“Speaking of old sweethearts,” said the president, “what do you think happened to me the other day? I was calling on Mrs. Vansmith and her guest, as she had requested. Both of them happened to be out, and, to my annoyance, I found I had no cards with me. At last I found one of Tom’s in my card-case, and I left that, knowing that Mrs. Vansmith would understand.”

“Well, and didn’t she?” asked the girl with the Roman nose.

“Perhaps. But the visitors didn’t. It turned out that she used to be engaged to Tom; while I was in the kindergarten, I suppose. It seems that his card was handed to her; and you should have seen the unbelieving smile with which she listened to my explanation of the matter!”

“You poor, dear,” said the blue-eyed girl, “you must have been as angry as if somebody had trodden on your gown. A rather unpleasant thing happened to Florence the other day, too; Molly was calling on her, and a note was handed in. She thought it was from Teddy Croesus, and pretending that she had ink on her fingers, asked Molly to open it for her, which she did.”

“How stupid of Molly; she might have known that it was some trick of Florence’s,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Was it a proposal from Teddy?”

“It wasn’t from Teddy at all; handwritings are so much alike nowadays. It was a bill from the hairdresser, of whom Florence had bought those lovely little curls which cluster around her brow—and Molly read it aloud, as she had requested.”

“But who told you about it?” said the girl with the classic profile.

“Molly. You didn’t suppose it was Florence, did you? I declare, it made me feel like trying to persuade both of them to join our club. There isn’t a girl in it that would do such a mean thing, and the example might—”

“No, it wouldn’t; they are too frivolous,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Oh, girls, I sometimes wish that the men who dance with us could hear the serious discussions which go on in this club,—so harmoniously, too.”

“True,” said the president, “not one unkind word has been spoken, even of the absent, since we organized. I wonder if as much can be said of any other club.”

“I doubt it,” said the blue-eyed girl; “and it isn’t as if we couldn’t think of clever things to say about people, either.”

“Of course not,” returned the girl with the Roman nose; “why, I know some things, even about the other members, which—”

“So do I,” said the girl with the classic profile. “Why, I heard the other day that you—”

“Of course I wouldn’t mention, for the world,” finished the girl with the Roman nose, in some agitation.

“I thought not, dear; it would hardly be wise,” said the girl with the eyeglasses, “for you, especially.”

“I’m sure, I don’t see why I, es—”

“Don’t you, dear? But, then, you never were clever,” said the president. “Yes, I am very proud of the amiability we have all displayed since joining the club. I must say that I didn’t expect—”

“I don’t see why not,” said the blue-eyed girl. “As for me, I can get along with anybody, so I was not at all afraid.”

“Yes, dear,” said the brown-eyed blonde, “your tongue would be a protection, even if—”

“Other people were even more envious of me? That is hardly possible, dear; but I thank you for your good opinion of me.”

“Don’t overwhelm me with gratitude, dearest; I really do not deserve it.”

“But, luckily for you, love, people seldom get their deserts.”

“Oh, girls, don’t quarrel,” said the president, wringing her hands; “I’ve always wanted this to be different from a man’s club, and now—”

“Really, Evelyn, you seem to be the one who is doing the quarreling,” said the brown-eyed blonde, tartly. “As for me, I am naturally amiable, and—”

“It is not your fault if your temper is a bit soured by repeated disappointments,” broke in the blue-eyed girl; “of course not. Everybody says it is no wonder.”

“I—I resign from this club,” sobbed the brown-eyed blonde. “I’ll not stay here another minute to be insulted!”

“Girls, girls,” said the president, “do be reasonable. I—”

“This is the first time I was ever accused of being unreasonable,” said the girl with the Roman nose; “and all I’ve got to say is, that I pity Tom from the bottom of my heart, and—”

“I don’t doubt but that you’d be glad to comfort him—if I was dead,” sobbed the president. “If this is all I am to get for keeping you at peace during the meetings, I’ll just resign, and let you run the club to suit yourselves. And a p-pretty mess you-you’ll make of it!” And she retired behind her handkerchief.

“I’ll resign, too, this very minute,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “I knew just how it would be when Dorothy asked me to join the club, but—”

“You were afraid to refuse, lest something happen, and you didn’t know all about it,” finished the blue-eyed girl. “Well, I wish to tender my resignation from the club, to take effect at once.”

“And so do I,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin.

“And I,” said the girl with the classic profile.

“I, too,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.

“W—why, then, there’s nobody left!” exclaimed the blue-eyed girl, gazing about the room in astonishment. “Oh, w—what will all the men of our set say when they hear of this!” she wailed.

“I never thought of that!” said the girl with the Roman nose. “I know well enough, though, without thinking,” she added.

“They will say that women never can agree among themselves,” sobbed the girl with the dimple in her chin, “and they will keep on saying it, in spite of the fact that it is a baseless libel!”

“Of—of course, I am not an—angry, only hurt,” sobbed the president.

“I am not angry at all,” said the blue-eyed girl, “only distressed that the others—”

“I’m sure I—I haven’t a hard feeling against any—anybody,” wailed the girl with the dimple in her chin.

“Nor I,” said the girl with the classic profile.

“Mercy, no,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.

“If anybody is sorry for having hurt my feelings, I am quite ready to forgive it,” said the girl with the Roman nose.

“And so am I,” said the brown-eyed blonde.

“Then, I don’t see that any of us need resign,” said the president. “Does anybody remember the topic under discussion?”

“‘The Pioneer New Woman,’” said the blue-eyed girl, “and a very interesting topic it is, I’m sure.”

“Hear, hear,” said the girl with the Roman nose, as she tucked her handkerchief into her belt.

“One thing is always a mystery to me,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “why does no female creature ever acknowledge that she is a new woman until she is quite an old one?”

“Oh, well, by that time her years will entitle her to a seat in a street car, even if she wears bloomers,” thoughtfully replied the president.

“Who really was the pioneer new woman?” asked the girl with the classic profile.

“Eve; although, she did not call herself by that name, I believe,” returned the blue-eyed girl. “So far as I can see, the new woman is just like all the rest of us—she wants to get everything she can out of the world, and give as little as possible in return.”

“And it is perfectly natural that she should,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “The only way we can make the men give us what we really want, is by asking for a great deal more, so that they will think themselves lucky if we compromise on what we originally decided to have.”

“Hear! hear!” said the girl with the Roman nose, making an entry into her note-book, “I’ve been acting on that theory all my life, but I never thought to formulate it.”

“Pardon me for the suggestion,” said the president, “but I hope you are not in the habit of leaving that note-book around where any man can see it.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference if I did, dear. I went to such a fashionable school that no one but myself can ever read my chirography—I can’t myself, if it was written long enough ago for me to have quite forgotten what I said.”

“Then, you needn’t be uneasy about any old love letters which have not been returned,” said the brown-eyed blonde.

“Not at all. Nobody could tell whether I had written a promise of undying affection or a recipe for hair tonic.”

“I do wish my father had sent me to the same school,” said the brown-eyed blonde, sorrowfully.

“Pshaw, old letters don’t tell half as many tales as old photographs,” said the girl with the eyeglasses, sighing. “I know a girl who had been engaged to a man who returned everything she had given him except one photograph. She couldn’t refuse to let him keep it when he begged so hard.”

“He had probably lost it, and didn’t know how to account for its absence,” said the president.

“No, he hadn’t. Well, six years later, she became engaged to another man. I fancy she must have told him some stories about her age.”

“It’s always better to understate rather than overstate a case,” said the blue-eyed girl.

“So my old nurse used to say. Well, when she was about to be married, her old lover sent her a beautiful present, and with it an envelope addressed to her fiancÉ.”

“Which she should have opened herself,” said the president, promptly.

“He happened to be present when the box was opened, dear. The envelope contained the photograph taken seven years before—”

“Why didn’t she say that—”

“It was a picture of her elder sister? She did, dear. What really caused the trouble was her own name, and the date on the back of it, coupled with the statement that it was taken on her twenty-second birthday!”

“Oh, my goodness, how sly men are?” said the president. “And to think that never, as long as she lived, could that girl tell him what she really thought of him!”

“I know. She used to say that she sometimes regretted that she hadn’t married him.”

“Oh, well, he is probably married to somebody else, by this time, anyhow,” said the president, “though I doubt if his wife would fully appreciate the enormity of his behavior, since it was toward another woman.”

“Never mind,” said the brown-eyed blonde, “people are sure to be punished in some way or another. I wouldn’t get up early on Sunday morning, and go to church if I did not firmly believe that.”

“Goodness me,” said the president, “it must be awfully late, girls, and I promised Tom to adjourn early and meet him down town. I do wonder if he has been waiting for me all this time!”

“I’ve seen Jack,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, as the friends went down the stairs; “met him on the street this morning.”

“And, I suppose you hurried right on, and never said a civil word to him,” returned the blue-eyed girl.

“Indeed I didn’t. I called after him to wait for me, and—”

“And I suppose he thought that I had told you to talk to him, since you were so eager. You needn’t tell me a word that you said—I don’t want to hear anything about it. Did—did he look sort of hollow-eyed and worn?”

“‘M—I can’t say that he did. But he said that he thought he must give up chafing-dish suppers.”

“I should think he must have bad dreams,” said the blue-eyed girl, viciously.

“He—he told me that he had called at your house the other day, and—”

“I suppose you let him go on thinking that I meant that message for him. A nice friend you are, Emily Marshmallow!”

“Why, Dorothy, I—”

“You don’t surely mean that you explained it all, and actually let him think that I wanted to apologize! Well, if anybody had told me such a thing of you, I never would have believed it.”

“No, I didn’t,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, “I didn’t say a word, for just then Frances joined us; and if you are clever enough to get a private word with any man, after Frances sees him, I am not!”