“Oh, dear me,” said the president, “I don’t see why men can never understand things.”

“H’m,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “Are we to understand that you have just discovered that fact?”

“Of course not,” said the president, “but I’ve just had an argument with my husband—that’s why I am late to-day, girls. He will insist that this club ought to have a constitution and by-laws, and a lot of other unnecessary things, in spite of the fact that we get along nicely just as well without them.”

“I suppose he would like to draft them for us,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “That is always the way with men. When they see women doing anything well they always want to come in, and take the credit of it.”

“So they do,” said the girl with the classic profile. “I suppose he would want us to have parliamentary rules, too—as if anybody would obey them! Anyhow, it is only a man who can do but one thing at a time. I suppose it is necessary in a club of men that only one person have the floor at a time, and all that sort of thing.”

“I suppose it is,” said the president, “no man that ever lived could tell what anybody else was saying while he was talking himself. Well, I only wish they could see how orderly our meetings are, and how well we keep to the subject in hand, without any rules or regulations. By the way, let us discuss ‘Woman as a Parliamentarian’ to-day. What do you say?”

“Oh, pshaw,” said the girl with the Roman nose, “you said the subject was to be ‘Woman as a Factor in the Business World,’ and I was to speak on it.”

“Oh, well, you can use the same line of argument, anyhow; I forgot to tell you that I had changed my mind. Girls, do be quiet while she reads her paper on—”

“Oh, but I am not prepared, anyhow,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “I was obliged to stop in the midst of it to write the invitations for my five o’clock tea. A nice job it was, too, for I just couldn’t get all I wanted to say on a card!”

“Why, I heard a man saying only the other day, that you write the most charming notes he ever read,” said the girl with the classic profile.

“Thank you for telling me, dear. I shall use the telephone exclusively after this—the idea of living to know that everybody says when you are spoken of, ‘Yes, what charming notes she does write.’ Think of knowing that you are expected to be brilliant when you write to say you can’t come to dinner because your face is swollen, or to ask how to take coffee stains out of your new evening gown.”

“I know all about that,” groaned the brown-eyed blonde; “once in an evil hour somebody called me ‘vivacious,’ and I’ve cultivated three wrinkles in trying to live up to it. Think of having to be vivacious at a church sociable, or when the man to whom you have just been revealing your views on the subject of friendship turns out to be engaged!”

“Awful!” shuddered the girl with the eyeglasses, “but pity me, all of you. People who like me always say that I am a delightful conversationalist; those who do not, simply remark that I talk all the time. Sometimes, when I am low-spirited, it seems to me that there is not much difference between the two.”

“Yes, but think of me!” moaned the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Somebody once discovered that I had a ‘little head running over with curls,’ I calculate that I have spent a fortune in patent curlers and alcohol lamps since then!”

“I suppose that is why you wouldn’t go to the seashore with me last summer,” remarked the president. “Well, for my part, I only wish I knew who it was that first called me a ‘nice little woman’—it’s as bad as being named Smith or living in a row!”

“Pshaw, I wouldn’t mind that a bit,” said the girl with the Roman nose, “there’s nothing like a reputation for amiability—you can be as ill-natured as you please, once it is gained.”

“Humph, you seem to forget that I have a husband to remind me of things,” said the president. “Well, there is one person I don’t envy, and that is Barbara.”

“Humph, I don’t think she is so beautiful,” said the girl with the Roman nose; “for my part, I think her nose might be called a snub.”

“Neither do I,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “the lower part of her face is actually coarse.”

“Say what you please,” said the president, “she has the reputation of being a beauty, and if she doesn’t look as well as usual she just has to stay at home. She has a cold now, and her complexion is awful.”

“Is it?” said the girl with the Roman nose, “I must certainly stop in to see her to-day. I never saw her when she had a really bad cold.”

“And so shall I,” said the brown-eyed blonde, “she really ought not to be neglected when she is ill.”

“I shall go, too,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “And by the way, Dick has been teasing for an introduction to her for ever so long. This will be the very time to take him to call on her—when she is certain to be at home, I mean.”

“I understand,” said the president; “it is very thoughtful of you to want to cheer up the poor thing. Girls, shouldn’t you love to see her face when she finds that Emily has brought a strange man to call when her complexion is in such a condition.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose that she will mind Dick,” said the brown-eyed blonde; “nobody else does, you know.”

“Very true,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, sweetly. “Of course he has eyes for nobody else when I am in the room; but I did not expect you, Frances, to acknowledge as much.”

“Why, Dorothy,” cried the president, “here you are, at last! It isn’t like you to keep anybody waiting—that is, of course, except a man; they are accustomed to it, and—”

“Why, does Dorothy ever keep a man waiting?” said the brown-eyed blonde, elevating her eyebrows. “I had understood that she usually met them in the front hall when—”

“Yes, dear, but then I am always dressed to see masculine callers. I have so many, you know. Why, Evelyn, I would not have been late for the world, but my new gown—”

“I’m sure I don’t blame you for it, dear. I couldn’t have helped making a dramatic entry in such a poem myself.”

“But it wasn’t that which made me late, dear. I fancied there was a tiny wrinkle in the back of the waist. After examining it in every mirror in the house, I discovered that it was only the way I twisted my shoulders to look at it, which made the wrinkle.”

“Well, I am glad that your mind is at rest about it, anyhow,” said the girl with the eyeglasses, “one’s back is so defenseless. Annie once sat behind me at the theater, and I endured agonies lest the bow at the back of my collar was crooked. When we came away, I found that she had actually been so absorbed in the people on the stage that she didn’t know I was there. I had been wanting to see that play for months, and, to save my life, I couldn’t have told you a thing in it after I saw it.”

“I know just how you felt,” said the president, “I once went to a matinÉe with Eustace just before Tom and I were married, and I expected to have great fun, because there was so much danger of being found out. Toward the end of the first act, I heard that horrid Miss Blanque in the seat back of me, saying, ‘Oh, Tom, what would she say if she knew!’ I can tell you that my blood boiled when I thought of such duplicity, and I was tempted to turn and wither them on the spot with a single glance!”

“And did you?” eagerly asked the girl with the classic profile.

“Why—er, no. I thought Tom might ask why I had come with Eustace, though that was very different.”

“Very different, indeed,” said the blue-eyed girl. “And did you—”

“Oh, I didn’t enjoy that play a bit. I told Eustace I had a headache at the end of the second act, and—”

“No doubt by that time it was true enough. Such duplicity in one whom you trusted was—”

“Yes. And he had always said he did not admire Miss Blanque at all. Well, I went home and wrote him a scorching note. I said that but for Eustace, I should never have discovered that he was flirting with another girl while pretending to think of nobody but me!”

“That was quite right. I hope he was ashamed of himself!”

“Well, no; he wasn’t. He had been at a stockholder’s meeting all that afternoon. My own father was there, and he called him as a witness! And I actually had to explain why I had gone to the matinÉe with Eustace!”

“Oh, my goodness, how awful!” cried the girl with the Roman nose. “But you said you heard Miss Blanque call him Tom!”

“So I did. It was Tom Dashaway who was engaged to Elaine. And wasn’t it a joke? She never found him out at all!”

“It is awfully hard to get ahead of a man,” sighed the girl with the classic profile; “and it is the irony of fate that when one does succeed in doing it, the victory is usually of such a character that, in order to retain it, one must say nothing at all about it!”

“Very true,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Oh, I am so enraged with Harold that I feel ready to die! I had an engagement with him on Saturday afternoon, and I forgot all about it and went out with Marie. I never thought of him at all until I saw him coming up the street, and then I dragged Marie into a shop. I was so excited that she thought a mad dog was coming, and almost created a scene!”

“And did he recognize you?” asked the blue-eyed girl.

“I’m afraid so. He didn’t come, as usual, on Sunday; and I took the dilemma by the horns, and wrote him a note, saying that I remained at home all Saturday afternoon expecting him; and why didn’t he come, as he had promised?”

“Good idea!” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “then, he would think he had mistaken some one else for you. You could pretend to be very much offended at that, and so snatch victory from the very jaws of defeat.”

“So I thought. But his reply—oh, I knew I should die of rage! It said: ‘My dear Miss Marion: Pray pardon me for quite overlooking my engagement with you on Saturday afternoon. Yes, I know you were at home—for I saw you at the window as I passed!’ And as long as I live, I shall never be able to tell that man what I really think of him!”

“Never mind, you can tell everybody else—and that is almost as satisfying,” said the president; “more so, perhaps; for then you need not hear what he has to say in reply.”

“I am so glad to see you looking so well to-day, Dorothy, dear,” whispered the girl with the dimple in her chin; “it pleases me to see that you still take an interest in dress, and—”

“Pray, why shouldn’t I take an interest in dress? Really, Emily Marshmallow, you are the queerest girl I ever did see! Here, you see me trying to conceal my poor broken heart with smiles, and then you begrudge me the slight pleasure I take in appearing decently clad. And when I mean to go and teach in a free kindergarten—well, next week, and wear a black gown with white collar and cuffs for the rest of my natural life!”

“I’m sure I don’t mean to begrudge you anything, dear. And Jack says that he is sure that if you would just see him, he could explain the whole thing—”

“Of course, you have been on his side all along. That is the way of the world; everybody sympathizes with the one who is in fault, and—”

“He said that he was hurrying to catch up with you on the street yesterday, and that Frances—this is what he says, dear—not knowing what he was doing, called him to rescue her hat, which had blown away. By the time he had done it, you were out of sight. You see, Dorothy, he seems to fancy that you are—well, rather nice to Clarence, and—”

“Oh, I thought Clarence was coming. So I am rather nice to the one human being who really understands me, am I? Well, you may just tell Jack Bittersweet that I shall keep on being nice to him as long as I choose—and he might know me well enough by this time to be sure that I shall keep my word!”

“Dear me, Dorothy, you surely are not crying, are you?” cried the brown-eyed blonde. “Do tell me what is wrong; perhaps I can help you.”

“I am afraid not, dear. I was just telling Emily that there is so much trouble in the world that I sometimes feel actually guilty when I think of my own absolutely cloudless existence! By the way, have you heard that Clarence Lighthed has just bought that pretty place in Astor Street, which was for sale? He must think that my knowledge of architecture is valuable, for he told his agent to make an offer for it just because I admired it so much!”

“Poor Effie Bittersweet,” said the president. “I—ah, I don’t know what has made me think of her just at this time, but Madame told me yesterday that she had been obliged to alter all her gowns for her. They are a full half-inch too loose, she says!”

“Really? Is Effie ill?” cried the blue-eyed girl, in surprise. “How odd that you never thought to mention it, Frances! I should have gone to see her immediately, had I known it. Pray, tell her so when you see her next.”

“If you are so anxious to see her, why not go with me, and tell her so, yourself,” said the brown-eyed blonde, dryly.

“In this gown? and when all of hers are at the dressmaker’s! I couldn’t think of doing such a mean thing. I only thought that as you are always at her house, you could take a message for me; that is all.”

“Tom says Clarence asked him the other day, if he didn’t consider that the best thing a fellow could do was to marry some nice girl, and settle down,” said the president, suddenly.

“Yes? And what did Tom say?” asked the girl with the dimple in her chin.

“He must have said ‘yes,’ dear; otherwise he wouldn’t have dared to mention the occurrence to me at all.”

“What I am wondering,” said the blue-eyed girl, innocently, “is: what on earth made Clarence ask him such a question?”

“Sheer curiosity, dear,” said the brown-eyed blonde, sweetly; “what other reason could he possibly have had? By the way, girls, have you noticed that Marie is showing great strength of character lately? She has broken with Mr. Mushley, and actually refused to send back any of his presents. She says the sight of them could not fail to remind him of his loss, and she would rather have people speak unkindly of her than cause him unnecessary pain!”

“How sweet of her,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “I only hope he will appreciate her consideration. Girls, what do you think Elizabeth told me the other day? Why, that all the photographs of girls my brother saw when he called on Fred belonged to a man with whom he used to room, and he was only keeping them until he happened to run across him again.”

“And she believed him?” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, scornfully. “How silly some girls are, to be sure! They believe anything a man tells them. To be sure, Dick was telling me the truth when he said that he only wrote all those sonnets to Clara as a joke; but that was very different.”

“Very different,” said the girl with the classic profile. “Girls, I heard to-day that Jack Bittersweet is thinking of throwing up his partnership, and emigrating to Australia. I beg your pardon, Dorothy, did you speak?”

“Yes, dear, I was about to say that I think ‘Woman as a Parliamentarian’ is the most interesting topic we have ever discussed. By the way, I wonder if the climate of Australia is as unhealthy as some people think! I—I am so fond of Effie that I should hate to have anything happen to her brother.”

“I think Effie could bear it, dear,” said the president, “even in her present state of health. She says Jack is so cross that a hyena would be amiable by comparison.”

“Jack Bittersweet cross!” cried the brown-eyed blonde. “Why, he is one of the nicest fellows I ever knew, and—”

“But after all, you are hardly a judge of masculine dispositions, dear,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Your acquaintance with the sex has been so limited, you know. Oh, Evelyn, I’ve been intending to ask you if we can’t take up theosophy, and discuss it thoroughly at one of our meetings in the near future. I am so anxious for a thorough knowledge of it.”

“Indeed we can,” cried the president, heartily. “You don’t know how pleased I am to hear you say that, Emily,—well, if there is one thing this club can safely pride itself upon it is its thoroughness; and I am sure that is more than most organizations can do—!”

“I know it,” said the blue-eyed girl; “why, my father belongs to a club which has taken six months to study the financial problems of Europe and the United States. They are not yet through discussing the subject—and yet they have the temerity to call themselves students!”

“I hope you have pointed out to them the superiority of our system over—”

“Well, no, dear; somehow it does not seem wise to discuss such a subject with one’s father. Dear, dear, do you suppose that girls were so very different in the days when our fathers were young?”

“Humph, no,” said the girl with the Roman nose, “but they were much more afraid of remaining single. Besides, our fathers were young, too, in those days, and ever so much easier to please. Still,” she added, thoughtfully, “I don’t know that it is altogether that. No one is so easily subjugated as an elderly man who has become a widower. It is so long since girls have really tried to make themselves agreeable to him, that all their little ways are new to him.”

“H’m, yes—unless he has grown daughters of his own,” said the brown-eyed blonde.

“I don’t see what difference that makes. They don’t try their little ways of—of being nice on him; and seeing them tried on some one else is very different.”

“Isn’t it?” said the girl with the classic profile. “Now, for instance, it is very interesting to have a man pay one compliments; but how it does bore one to hear him say the very same things about another girl!”

“Doesn’t it? and yet, such is the selfishness of man, that he expects one to be as much interested,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.

“Oh, girls,” cried the girl with the dimple in her chin, “you know that old Mrs. Myllons is always making presents to Barbara and me! Well, one day in the beginning of the season she called for me to go shopping with her. Of course, I went. Now, it was not long after Barbara had encouraged her to give me that awful picture of Burns, and I was as eager for her to select a present for Barbara as for me. I knew I could direct her choice in either case. To my joy, she stopped to look at silks, and her choice fell upon a hideous piece of green which would demolish Barbara’s complexion completely—and I really think that girl would sooner part with her life than her complexion. I managed to convey to Mrs. Myllons my personal preference for a lovely pink which cost a dollar less a yard, while encouraging her to buy the green. You see she was planning her reception, and Barbara and I were to assist her on that occasion.”

“So she took it, did she?” said the president. “I only hope I may see Barbara in the green!”

“You never will,” wailed the girl with the dimple in her chin—“it was for me! Mrs. Myllons sent it with a lovely note complimenting me on my unselfishness in wishing Barbara to have the handsomer piece. I dare not refuse to wear it at the reception; and my own father actually says it serves me right for trying to play a joke on Barbara!”

“You must not expect sympathy from your father, dear,” said the girl with the Roman nose; “he will expect you to wear that gown all season, to save buying another. And nothing will ever happen to it, either,” she added. “It is only the gown that is dearer to you than life itself which has a fatal attraction for cups of coffee or fowls carved by inexperienced hosts!”

“Did I ever tell you of the awful thing which happened to me last winter?” said the girl with the classic profile. “I believe not, though; we hadn’t started our club then. Well, I just had to have a new gown, and I was so afraid that my father wouldn’t give it to me that I got it without saying a word to him. I knew that even if there was a cyclone over the bill I’d have the gown anyhow. That being the case, I got a much handsomer one than I would have chosen under other circumstances.”

“Quite right,” said the president; “if there must be an unpleasant scene, better have it over something which will fully repay one.”

“So I thought. Well, the gown only came home the evening of my sister’s dance; and I really wanted to enjoy that, so I decided not to give papa the bill until the next day, though the dressmaker was in a great hurry for her money.”

“They always are,” sighed the president.

“Yes. I was having a lovely time until supper was served, and then Mr. Rocksby emptied a plate of lobster salad over the whole front of my new gown! Florence was near; she never got farther away from him than—than she could help; and—well, you all know how he admires amiability! He apologized profusely, and I, smilingly, said, ‘Oh, it doesn’t make the least difference. The gown is of no value at all, and I should probably never have worn it again, anyhow.’”

“How lovely of you!” said the blue-eyed girl. “It must have made a deep impression upon him.”

“H’m, I don’t know about that; but it did upon me. I happened to turn my head just then, and papa was at my elbow! I’d rather not tell you the things he said when I gave him the bill for that gown the next morning!”

“We can all guess,” said the blue-eyed girl, with a shudder. “But wasn’t Mr. Rocksby awfully nice to you after that?”

“No, he wasn’t. He said that the girl who cared nothing for the destruction of such a handsome gown was too extravagant to make a good wife for a poor man! And the hardest part of it all was the fact that he must have lots of money, else he never on earth would speak of himself as ‘a poor man!’”

“Let us hope your father never found that out,” said the president, in devout tones.

“But he did. He overheard Mr. Rocksby saying it to Florence; and that was one of the things he mentioned when I gave him the bill.”

“You poor dear!” said the president. “I declare it really depresses me to hear of such persistent ill-luck. Well, girls, since we have thoroughly exhausted our subject, I think we may just as well adjourn.”

The blue-eyed girl went home with the girl with the dimple in her chin, and after they had begun to sip their tea, she said:

“Is it true that Jack intends to go to Australia unless our quarrel is made up?”

“He—he says he will,” was the cautious reply.

“Then, I want to know what you intend to do in the matter?”

“What I—intend to do in the matter?” she gasped.

“Yes. Of course it is thoroughly in your hands. I have not made a single move without consulting you, and being guided by your advice. And if the quarrel is never made up, and I die of a broken heart, it will be entirely your fault!”