“Let us discuss ‘Woman in Legislation,’ to-day,” said the president. “I had written you a note, Marion, to prepare a paper on it, but I found it in my desk this morning.”

“Too bad,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “I should have been delighted to do it.”

“Why, Marion,” cried the girl with the Roman nose, “have you forgotten? You said you were too busy painting dinner cards to touch it. That was when I told you that Evelyn wanted you to do it, you remember.”

“No, I don’t,” snapped the girl with the eyeglasses. “Of course I shan’t have a minute to prepare a paper for next week; but I should have been delighted to—”

“Girls,” said the president, “only think! Tom says this club is actually making me masculine.”

“Mercy, you must have convinced him that you had the better of him in an argument,” cried the girl with the Roman nose.

“No—but I forgot to mail some letters he intrusted to me the other day when he was going out of town. By the way, it seems to me that when legislation is in the hands of women. What are you girls whispering about over there in the corner?”

“We are only comparing samples of bicycle suitings,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Dorothy has a larger selection than I, and—”

“Why, I have a lot of them, myself,” said the president. “Has anybody seen my hand-bag since I came in?”

“Here it is,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “I’ve just been comparing your samples with mine, and I find—”

“Goodness me, I’m late,” said the brown-eyed blonde, as she bounced into the room. “I just stopped on my way here to look at a new design for bicycle suits, and—”

“I’ve been trying for half a block to catch you, Frances,” said the girl with the classic profile, as she opened the door, in turn; “I’ve been looking at the new bicycles, and was detained longer than I expected.”

“Oh, shall you get a new wheel this year?” asked the president.

“No, dear,” returned the girl with the classic profile; “but, of course, I wanted to see what they are like.”

“Naturally,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “My dears, you never heard of such luck as mine. You know papa said I shouldn’t have a new bicycle this year, if I had to walk—”

“Oh, if you call that luck,” said the blue-eyed girl, “my father said the same thing.”

“So did mine,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.

“Wait until you hear the rest,” said the girl with the Roman nose, “I had my old machine set in order, and expected to have to do with it all this season. The other day, I went into the store-room to have a look at it, and, to my surprise, found it all splashed with mud, the enamel scratched, and—”

“The cook had been riding it, of course,” broke in the president.

“I knew that at once, and I went to tell mamma she must discharge her on the spot. However, mamma was lying down with a headache, and as I had some shopping, a luncheon, two teas and a dinner on hand that day, I had no chance to speak to her. Two days later, I remembered it, and went in to look at it—I knew that mamma was so prejudiced against bicycling that I must make the case very bad to excite her sympathy. It was bad enough, by this time, too; one pedal was all bent, the handle-bar was broken, and the enamel was a sight!”

“I hope you made your mother discharge that cook on the spot!” said the blue-eyed girl.

“I rushed right up to mamma’s room to do it. I opened the door, and a familiar odor greeted me—a combination of arnica and witch hazel, and—”

“You forgot all about the cook. Had your mother fallen downstairs?”

“No; she hadn’t. The cook had been trying to teach her to ride my bicycle; she had a black eye, a sprained shoulder, and a skinned face. The cook had gone home with a dislocated collar-bone, and I had to wait on mamma, and do all the cooking for two days!”

“And you call that luck!” groaned the president.

“Not that, dear. But mamma gave me a beautiful new wheel for keeping the whole thing from papa’s ears. And I sold the old one for enough to buy me a lovely new suit,” she added, triumphantly.

“I am glad somebody has had a stroke of luck,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “As for me, I’ve just had an object-lesson in the selfishness of this world, which is enough to make a misanthrope of me for life.”

“Mercy, has your grandmother decided to buy a wheel for herself instead of for you?” asked the blue-eyed girl.

“No. But you see it scratches the enamel to learn on a wheel—not to mention the other accidents which may befall it. Now, Nell’s bicycle is old, and I sent to borrow it to ride while I was taking my lessons. She actually refused it, unless I would lend her my new one while I had hers. Did you ever hear of such selfishness in your life?”

“Never,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “By the way, I suppose Jack Bittersweet will teach you to ride?”

“Why, yes; but how did you guess it?” There was a note of triumph in her voice.

“Oh, that was easy enough. He is always teaching somebody, you know. I told him the other day that I was afraid people would soon think him a professional.”

“B—but he told me that he only teaches people whom he—likes,” said the brown-eyed blonde, faintly.

“Why, of course, dear. But, Jack hasn’t a bit of discretion; he likes everything that wears petticoats, I verily believe.”

“Oh—I— By the way, Evelyn, dear, what is to-day’s topic? You had started the discussion when I came, and I didn’t like to interrupt you to ask.”

“It is ‘Woman in Legislation,’” said the president, after a peep at her note-book, “By the way, Frances, I know the cheapest place in town for arnica, if you want—”

“Mine doesn’t cost anything, dear. Papa always has a bill at the drug store. I know the clerk, and he has promised if I use a very large quantity to put it down as toilet soap and postage stamps. Papa has never ridden you know, and he might not understand.”

“Very true,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “What a comfort bicycling is, anyhow. For instance, if you meet a strange man, and the conversation lags—”

“Get it on bicycles, and it runs smoothly enough,” said the president.

“I wish I could do the same,” wailed the brown-eyed blonde. “Well it is lucky for me that the dancing season is over, for my arms are a perfect sight.”

“Oh, if it is only your arms!” said the girl with the Roman nose, cheerfully. “I always fell on my face when I was learning. The only comforting thing about that was, that I soon became unrecognizable, and could fall right up and down my own street without a soul knowing who I was. It was very convenient, too, for they hadn’t far to take me when I had a really bad accident.”

“How long did you have to wait to sit for your photograph?” asked the blue-eyed girl.

“Six weeks, dear—and then it had to be a profile.”

“Elizabeth had rather a hard time of it, too,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “she would learn in her lovely new suit, and by the time she could ride, she hadn’t enough of it left to make a bathing costume.”

“Tom tells a rather good bicycle story,” observed the president. “He met a member of his club, who is a noted scorcher, the other day. He was wheeling along a very disreputable specimen of a woman’s machine. ‘Hello,’ said Tom, ‘got yourself into trouble?’ ‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘I ran into a woman up yonder, and I’m afraid it will be cheaper to buy her a new wheel than to have the old one repaired.’ ‘Humph,’ said Tom, who knows him pretty well, ‘it’s a wonder you didn’t just ride away and leave her, when you found what you had done.’ ‘I did,’ said the scorcher, ‘but it didn’t do me any good.’ ‘Policeman saw you, eh?’ ‘No. The woman turned out to be my wife!’”

“Good!” said the blue-eyed girl. “I came very near not getting my bicycle last year. Papa said I should have one if I learned to make a good pie. I agreed to do it, but I had reckoned without the cook. She said flatly that she wouldn’t have me messing up her kitchen. Finally, I compromised by agreeing to trim her a hat, if she would make the pie. It was really quite the same you know.”

“Quite,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin.

“And did it turn out all right?” asked the president.

“The hat did; but the pie—well, the cook had lived with us for three years, and that was the first time she had turned out an uneatable pie!”

“But, why didn’t you ask your father to let you try again?” asked the girl with the Roman nose.

“I did, dear; but I took no chances that time; I bought the pie from the Woman’s Exchange. And I must say that I think I quite deserved the bicycle after all I had been through to earn it.”

“Indeed you did,” said the girl with the classic profile. “By the way, Emily, I hear that you and Dick had an almost fatal quarrel while you were both learning.”

“We did,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “It happened this way: I was able to ride at least two blocks without assistance, so I got up very early, and went to the park alone to practice. I was getting along very well until I heard somebody coming up behind me at a terrible pace. That made me so nervous that I fell right off. The cyclist who had frightened me was Dick, and he actually kept right on without offering to help me!”

“Perhaps he didn’t know it was you,” suggested the girl with the Roman nose.

“Yes, he did; but he kept right on, and a perfect stranger had to take me and my bicycle home. Two hours later he appeared with his arm in a sling, and explained. He said it was first time he had ridden outside of the riding school, and he had gotten a terrific pace which he couldn’t have stopped if a rich uncle had been in his way. He said that if something in his machine hadn’t broken, he verily believed he’d have circled the globe without stopping!”

“So you forgave him, didn’t you? You always were amiable,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.

“Ye—es. Especially as he offered to have my bicycle repaired; papa having declared the last time that he wouldn’t pay another cent for repairs, if it stood in the attic all summer!”

“That was good of you. Some girls would not have been so just,” said the president.

“Oh, don’t praise me too much,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, modestly. “Nobody who knew me happened to be in sight when it occurred—else I might not have let him off so easily.”

“Dear me, how modest you are,” said the blue-eyed girl. “I never knew a human being with so little vanity in my life.”

“Nor I,” said the girl with the classic profile. “Did I tell you about Florence’s latest trouble? No? Well, you know that horrid Mr. Brownsmith, who rides beautifully, begged to be allowed to teach her. She accepted, and as soon as she had learned to ride well, she wondered how to get rid of him.”

“Why didn’t she ask her father to—”

“Forbid him to the house? That’s just what she did. I believe you have heard this story before.”

“Yes. And her father?” queried the girl with the Roman nose.

“Absolutely refused to do it. Said he was the finest young man he knew, and only wondered that he cared for her society.”

“Well, I declare! And Florence?”

“Would have had to treat him just like anybody else, if he hadn’t heard all about it, and stopped calling of his own accord. Now, every time her father sees him, he asks why he hasn’t been to the house for so long!”

“How unreasonable men are to be sure—Florence’s father, in particular. Why, he actually refuses to speak to Dickey Doolittle, whose third cousin married a British baronet, and who has all his garments made in London!” said the president.

“I know—he says it makes no difference to him where Dickey gets his clothes; so long as he pays for them promptly,” said the blue-eyed girl.

“Which is the last thing Dickey would even think of doing,” said the girl with the Roman nose.

“Oh, well, he may think of it,” said the girl with the classic profile. “I suppose that even Dickey thinks sometimes.”

“You have been reading the comic papers again,” said the president, severely. “Whenever I hear old jokes I—”

“No, dear,” said the girl with the classic profile, sweetly, “but I had a long talk with your husband only yesterday.”

“Dear me,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, rousing herself from a reverie, “I’m afraid I’ve not been paying attention to the discussion. I can’t even remember whether we decided that women should be legislators or not.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the president. “I fear it is too late to go over the discussion again for your benefit. I thought you were taking notes of it as we went along—I saw you jotting something down in your note-book.”

“That was only my calculations for a bicycle suit. There must be something wrong about them, too, for I make it twenty-seven dollars, and I only have twenty-one dollars and thirty-eight cents to my name, even if somebody pays my car-fare home.”

“I only make it twenty-six dollars and two cents,” said the blue-eyed girl, “and I have allowed for everything just the same as you have.”

“But then you are so economical that your sums in addition always come out less than mine, dear. I think you had better go over it again; or let Evelyn do it for you.”

“I make it twenty-eight dollars and sixty cents,” said the president. “Try it Frances, and see if I am right.”

“Oh, don’t,” said the blue-eyed girl, “if anybody else adds it up, it may come out thirty dollars, and then I can’t afford it at all. Well, I do hope one thing,—that when women are legislators they will arrange that we all have more money to spend.”

“Of course they will,” said the president, “else why should they bother to be legislators at all?”

“Hear! hear!” said the girl with the Roman nose.

“What a comfort you are with your knowledge of parliamentary usage,” said the president.

“Yes, I have gained that by joining this club, if I have gained nothing else,” replied the girl with the Roman nose. “I observe, too, that papa and the boys are less inclined to engage in argument with me than they were before they knew the kind of topics we discuss here. Not that I give myself any airs over it, of course,” she added.

“Oh, none of us do that,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “But there is another benefit which I derive from the club. Mamma allows me to spend a good deal more money on my wardrobe, now that she is afraid that I may begin to look intellectual if I’m not well dressed.”

“Oh, speaking of bicycle suits; did you ever hear what happened to Molly’s old one?” asked the blue-eyed girl. “No? Well, she was determined to have a new one this year, so she put the old one away without any moth-balls, and—”

“It was completely ruined by the moths, so that she had to get a new one?” asked the president.

“No, it was comparatively uninjured; but the moths from it had got into all her brother’s spring garments, which were hanging up near it. Molly is thinking of going away on a nice long visit about the time that he discovers it.”

“H’m; if I know anything about men, she had better,” said the president. “Poor Molly, I suppose she had meant to coax him for another suit. How unlucky that girl is, and she doesn’t in the least deserve her ill-luck, either.”

“No. She often says it would be easier to bear if she did. Now, last year that very same brother was always coaxing her to ask Ida to pay her a visit. Finally, he said he’d give her fifty dollars if she would do it, and she thought she might as well be good-natured and oblige him. However, she was busy, and put it off a week or two, and when Ida’s letter of acceptance actually came he had fallen in love with another girl, and let Molly do all the entertaining!”

“Just like a man. Did he give her the money?” asked the president.

“No. He compromised on half, because Molly had put off asking her. And Ida stayed two weeks longer than she had been asked for, and made eyes all the time at the man Molly really liked herself.”

“Yes, poor Molly,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, “she says the next time her brother offers to pay her for having a girl to visit her, she will send the invitation by telegraph!”

“And demand payment in advance,” said the brown-eyed blonde; “of course he would be willing to pay for the telegram, anyhow.”

“Yes, and take it to the office, too,” said the president, with a sigh. “Tom used to send off all my telegrams before we were married—he always said it was too far to the office for me to go myself. Now, he says that the exercise will do me good.”

“I suppose he doesn’t want to pay for the message,” said the blue-eyed girl.

“Oh, I never pay for my telegrams, I always send them at receiver’s cost. People are so curious to know what is in a telegram that they pay without a murmur.”

“H’m, I shall have to try that,” said the girl with the Roman nose.

“But not on me,” cried the president. “I’ll never forgive you if you do. Oh, girls, did you hear the awful thing that happened to Milly when she sold her bicycle? No? Well, she only got ten dollars for it, because the man said it was in such an awful condition that he only took it to oblige her, and it would be a dead loss on his hands. He told her to come in in about ten days, and he’d have some second hand ones in such good condition that they would be the best bargains in town.”

“That was very nice of him, since he made nothing on the transaction,” said the brown-eyed blonde.

“So Milly thought. At the end of that time she went back, and found one that she liked very much, it being the same make as her old one. He wanted sixty dollars for it, but she beat him down to fifty, and took it home with her at once for fear he would change his mind. What do you think she found when she got home? That she had bought her own old machine back again!”

“But how did she know that?” asked the girl with the Roman nose.

“By the number on the plate, goosie. He had put on new pedals, raised the seat a bit and given it a new coat of enamel—making forty dollars on the transaction! And when Milly wanted her husband to punish him for his rascality, he only laughed until she actually thought seriously of applying for a divorce!”

“And no wonder,” said the blue-eyed girl. “One man will do a mean thing and another will uphold him. You don’t find women doing such things for each other!”

“No, indeed,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “our own standard of feminine behavior is so high, that we hardly even give each other credit for the good things we do!”

“I’ve often noticed that,” said the girl with the eyeglasses, “and I regret to see that men are unable to appreciate our lofty motives, and often set it down to envy.”

“My goodness,” cried the president, with a guilty start, “it must be long past time to adjourn, and I don’t want the janitor to look at me as he did last time we were late. Why, he couldn’t have been more unpleasant if I had been his own wife! And the look which always reduces Tom to instant submission hadn’t the least effect upon him!”

“I’ve been dying for an opportunity to speak to you all afternoon,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, to the blue-eyed girl, as they turned the corner, “I met Effie Bittersweet to-day, and she spoke so nicely of you that I am sure she thinks you and her brother are about to become reconciled.”

“It isn’t Jack this time, dear,” was the calm reply. “The fact is, that Clarence Lighthed has been paying me a good deal of attention lately, and she was afraid you would think her jealous.”

“Clarence! Well, I never—how on earth did you manage it, Dorothy?”

“Strange as it may appear, I didn’t manage it at all; he did it entirely of his own accord. But though that is the honest truth, there isn’t another girl of my acquaintance who would even pretend to believe it if I told her.”

“I suppose not, dear; and yet men must sometimes admire girls of their own free will. Well, Effie must be feeling very badly, then, for she said that of course she knew I would laugh at her for saying it, but for her part, she considered Dorothy Darling the prettiest girl in our set.”

“Humph, I’ll remember that when Clarence calls to-morrow afternoon. You couldn’t persuade Effie to drop in with you for a cup of tea, could you?”

“Ye—es, I suppose I could, if you will promise to put enough rum in my cup to fortify me for the walk home. And I have always wanted to own a hand mirror like that silver one of yours. Do you suppose anybody will ever give me one?”

“You may have mine, if you will promise to bring Effie in at precisely half-past four; Clarence will be reading poetry aloud by that time.”

“I promise; and I might just as well stop in and get the hand mirror now. You won’t want me to leave you a moment to-morrow.

“Indeed, I shall not. By the way, of course I told you that I cracked the mirror breaking taffy the other afternoon! No? Why, I wonder how I could have overlooked the fact.”

“Never mind, dear, Ned Croesus will have it mended for me—and thank me for letting him do it, instead of Dick. By the way, how can you endure so much of Clarence’s society? You always said he was so stupid.”

“That was when he used to talk of nothing but Effie. Any man would be stupid, if his only theme was another girl. You—you couldn’t let Jack know about Clarence, could you? If it was any one else Effie would tell him the first time she was provoked with him. Frances will be careful not to let him know, and men have such silly ideas about interfering with other peoples’ affairs, that I doubt if any of them say a word to him about the matter.”

“I might. Yes, I know I could, if only I was sure that you would not blame me if it turned out badly.”

“Well, Emily Marshmallow, to think of refusing to do a little thing like that for me—when I’ve just given you that lovely hand mirror, which I like better than anything I own. I just believe you want Jack Bittersweet yourself, and I’m sure you are welcome to him, for aught I care!”

“Look here, Dorothy, I think you forget that Jack is two whole inches shorter than I; and if you think I am capable of caring enough for any man to make myself look like a—a bean pole for the rest of my natural life, you are very much mistaken!”

“Oh, well, if you are sorry to have hurt my feelings, of course I shall overlook it. I only hope, however, that you will not rely too much on my natural amiability and push me too far. If you should see Jack in the near future you might, as you suggested,—”

“But, I didn’t suggest at all. You must just tell me what you want me to say to Jack and, if I get a chance, I—”

“You are entirely mistaken. I don’t want you to say anything to Jack; after the way he has treated me, I have too much pride to raise a finger to bring him back. I only thought that, as you are a friend of his, you might like to warn him that there are others who appreciate me, if he does not.”

“B—but I rather fancy that he will expect—er some kind of an explanation of the—the occurrence at your house last week. Suppose I just say—”

“Well, then, all I’ve got to say is, that if Jack Bittersweet is too stupid to understand a simple accident, I don’t care if he never speaks to me again. Clarence Lighthed is one of the very nicest fellows I ever knew, and I am one of the hap—happiest girls in the world. Don’t look at me as if you thought I was crying! I am not—and if I was, it would be out of p—pure joy!”