“‘Civic Organizations Among the Ancient Greeks,’ will be our topic for to-day,” said the president. “And, oh, girls, I am so angry with Tom that I would go right home to mamma, but for the fact that she always agrees with him. Papa invariably thinks I am in the right; but he would say unpleasant things about Tom, and I shouldn’t like that, either. The consequence is that I must just endure my martyrdom in silence.”

“But, what is wrong? Is it about that legacy from Tom’s aunt?” queried the girl with the Roman nose. “Dear me, I often think it’s so hard that really poor men are usually nicer than those that have money.”

“I don’t see why you always think of money in connection with me,” said the president. “Heaven knows, I am not mercenary, and I only want to live well and dress properly, in order that people may see Tom is not stingy. No, this is quite another matter. It all came from the topic I selected for to-day. I was talking, rather learnedly, about ‘Civic Organizations Among the Ancient Greeks,’ when Tom asked me suddenly what ward I live in! Of course, I didn’t know—”

“Why, neither do I,” said the brown-eyed blonde, “but it must be the same one, for we both live on the north side!”

“I really don’t know, either,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I don’t see what difference it makes though, for I could ask the clerk at the corner drug store if I needed particularly to know.”

“Of course you could,” said the president, “and so could I. But, Tom was awfully unpleasant—he couldn’t have been more so if we had been married twenty years instead of two. He said he didn’t see any use in my poking about among the civic organizations of ancient Greece, when I did not know what ward I lived in.”

“Humph! I suppose next thing he will be saying that he doesn’t see any use in the Teacup Club,” said the girl with the classic profile, in sarcastic tones. “A man will say anything when he is angry.”

“Humph! I fancy he will hardly say anything like that, dear. He knows it has its use, if it is only to make me look more leniently on his own club. When we first organized it he complained a good deal about the demands it made on my time and attention, and I just said: ‘Oh, very well, dear, let us both give up our clubs, and spend all our spare time at home together.’ After that, he held his peace on the subject.”

“But you wouldn’t have given it up, would you?” asked the brown-eyed blonde, anxiously.

“Of course not—but Tom didn’t know that. By the way, Emily, what is making Dorothy so late to-day?”

“I fancy she is engaged,” replied the girl with the dimple in her chin, demurely; “at least Jack Bittersweet was on his way to call on her a couple of hours ago, and I suppose—Pardon me, Frances, did you speak?”

“I—I was about to say, ‘how nice’—for Dorothy, I mean. By the way, girls, I—I am thinking of going to Omaha for a nice, long visit as soon as I can get ready.”

“But I thought you had already refused Lola’s invitation,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin.

“I—I had. But, really I have bought so many pretty things of late that I can get ready for my visit without the slightest trouble, and as my last visit was cut short, I—”

“Yes, I remember that quite well, dear. I remember that you came home a few days after Dorothy broke with poor Jack. But I don’t understand why you have been embroidering so much table linen lately. You surely will not need that for a visit to Omaha.”

“Why, er—no. I—I shall take it as a present to Lola’s mother, I think. You have no idea of how fond she is of me.”

“Indeed, I have, dear,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, warmly. “I’ve often noticed that married women who have no grown sons are fond of you. It is rather a pity, as things turned out, that you cut your last visit short; I am really afraid, if you go now, that you will miss Dorothy’s wedding.”

“At any rate, dear, she will not miss it herself. Really, I think the poor girl would have lost her mind if she had lost Jack. These disappointments are so hard to bear that—”

“I shall tell her that you said so, dear. I am sure she and Jack will both—”

“Oh, girls,” said the president, hastily, “do you suppose that Greek women used actually to wear those dowdy gowns on the street? Of course they would do very well for tea gowns, but—”

“I don’t suppose anything of the kind,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “It was chiefly the men who made the antique statues, wasn’t it? Very well, then, the poor creatures had no idea of style, and just reproduced the gowns they happened to admire themselves.”

“True,” said the girl with the classic profile; “men always detest the ruling fashion of the hour. And yet, they seem to think we dress to please them,” she added, derisively.

“I know it. And the women of ancient Greece were just like anybody else, I suppose,” replied the girl with the eyeglasses. “However, if they really wore white as frequently as they seem to, they must have had more money than I have to pay the laundress.”

“Yes, or the principal street of Athens—I forget the name of it, must have been a good deal cleaner than State street,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I don’t suppose, however, that the carving of statues could have made much dirt, and really the ancient Greeks seem to have done little else.”

“At any rate their system of civic organization was—dear me, what was it? I had it all written down on the back of an invitation to dinner, and I must have lost it as I came along,” wailed the president. “Oh, dear, what shall I do?”

“Never mind, you can tell us what you remember,” said the girl with the Roman nose, soothingly. “None of us know enough about it to detect the fact if you are wrong.”

“It isn’t that; I’ve got it all at home in the old school book I copied it from. But, as I say, it was on the back of an invitation to dinner, and I can’t remember whether it was for next Tuesday or Thursday!”

“Goodness me, that is really serious,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “but perhaps Tom will remember.”

“Tom remember the date of an invitation to dinner! How little you know about men. Why, he would tell me the wrong day, if he did remember, just to escape putting on his dress coat and going with me.”

“Humph! from what Helen says, you may be thankful that he goes at all. Her husband does not. She says—”

“Helen didn’t manage him properly at first, that’s all. When Tom first began to declare he wouldn’t go to dinners, I would just say, ‘Very well, dear, we’ll both remain at home, and tell our would-be hostess the true reason why we didn’t come. And now, I often reap the benefit of that Spartan policy. Of course, he is sometimes detained at the office by important business, or even called off by a telegram just as we are about to start. However, I always remember that he is only human after all, and seldom revenge myself in any other way than by telling him that Mr. Troolygood sat next me at table. Life will be a much more complicated affair for me if that dear fellow ever takes it into his head to marry.”

“I think you are perfectly safe for some time to come, dear,” said the girl with the classic profile, “his married sister, with whom he lives, is anxious for him to marry. She has the habit of inviting any girl he seems to admire, so constantly to the house that she soon loses all her charm for him.”

“No man likes courtship made easy,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “Mr. Troolygood will surely die a bachelor unless he succeeds some day in unearthing a girl whom his sister dislikes. That is hardly probable, either, since he invariably admires a girl with money—a habit, by the way, which I have also noticed in other young clergymen.”

“It is not confined to young clergymen, dear,” remarked the girl with the eyeglasses. “Talk about women being mercenary, I have often noticed that men think much more of money than we do. We know that they must provide for us somehow, and the doing of it is their affair.”

“Oh, girls,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, “what excellent mental training we do receive at this club! Dorothy was wondering the other day how we ever got along without it; and, indeed, so was I. A reputation for being intellectual is the nicest thing in the world; once you have it, you can be as silly as you choose, and people will feel actually grateful to you for unbending. It has its drawbacks, though. I find one must be more careful than ever to have cuffs and gloves immaculate.”

“True,” said the girl with the classic profile. “Girls, a college professor asked me the other day why we always wear veils on the street!”

“And what did you reply?” queried the girl with the Roman nose.

“To keep our faces clean! What did you suppose?”

“Oh! I thought you told him the truth. However, the more intellectual a man is the less he understands women. One of his students would—”

“Know better than to expect the truth in reply to such a question? Of course he would,” said the president; “but oh, girls, if an octogenarian knew as much about us as a sophomore thinks he does, what a queer world this would be!”

“Unpleasant rather than queer,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Of course we understand men thoroughly; but that is a very different matter.”

“Oh, very different,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “But aren’t they queer? Why, I once knew a man who called a girl a ‘most adorable little flirt,’ and then felt very much aggrieved when she kept on flirting after they became engaged!”

“Lots of girls never have an opportunity to flirt until they are engaged,” remarked the girl with the dimple in her chin. “To some men, an engagement ring on a girl’s hand has the same effect that a ‘Keep off the grass’ sign has on children.”

“True,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “Oh, Marion, shall you also visit Lola this year?”

“Not this century,” replied the girl with the eyeglasses. “Didn’t you hear what happened the last time she was here?”

“Why, no; except that she was to dine with you. What happened? Did she discuss art in a monologue from soup to coffee? or, did—”

“Yes, she did that; but it wouldn’t have really mattered, except for—you see it was this way: when she was here last summer, she gave me one of her, well, she calls them paintings. I accepted it with profuse thanks; and hung it in the darkest corner of the attic as soon as her train was well out of Chicago. When I heard that she was coming back, I fished the picture out of its corner, and gave it a prominent place in the parlor, telling her it had been there all the time.”

“Well, I’m sure she ought to be satisfied with that,” said the president; “not many people care enough for Lola to hang her pictures even temporarily on the parlor walls. The one she gave me is in the cook’s bedroom—the poor woman has been complaining of insomnia lately.”

“No wonder. Unluckily I forgot to coach my family, and when we came in from the dinner table, my brother Frank joined us. You know Lola is pretty when she remembers to comb her hair and remove her painting apron.”

“Mercy on us! did he criticise her painting while she was present?”

“No. He only said, ‘Hello, where did you get this new picture? I never saw it before. Looks like the one that has been vegetating in the attic!’”

“You needn’t tell us the rest, dear; we all know Lola. It was too bad, when you had only done it to spare her feelings, too!”

“Dear! dear!” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I wonder why the most hopeless artists are ever the most generous with their productions? They seem to wish to give them away, whereas—”

“Self-preservation, dear. When one has done something dreadful, one dislikes to be constantly reminded of the fact!” said the girl with the classic profile. “You know my eldest sister, don’t you? Well, her husband has an awful temper, but he seldom gives Sophie any trouble. Whenever he begins to be unpleasant, she says: ‘Isn’t it fortunate, dear; if you should die, or we should ever separate, I could have a good income, anyhow—I could just publish in book form the poems you wrote to me before we were married!’”

“And what then?” asked the president, breathlessly.

“Oh, he kicks the dog or snubs his typewriter; but he never says another word to Sophie.”

“And yet, Sophie used to be considered dull at school,” said the president, thoughtfully. “Well, that’s only another proof that even genius needs a special opportunity.”

“Speaking of opportunities,” said the girl with the eyeglasses, “have you heard of Marie’s last mishap? No? I thought not. You know that delightful young physician who cares nothing for society, and declines all non-professional invitations, and never calls on a woman under seventy. Well, Marie has developed neuralgia, grip, and nervous prostration in swift succession, and he has been called in to attend her. You see, it is this way: it gives her an opportunity to see him in bewitching tea-gowns, and she studies new poses on the sofa when she is not taking powders.”

“Oh! And when are they to be married?” asked the president.

“Never, dear. He says he had long loved her silently, and was trying to summon up enough courage to tell her so. Now, however, he sees that she is too delicate to make a good wife for a hardworking professional man!”

“Humph! No wonder Marie’s little brother told mine he wants to go away to boarding-school,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “Well, I always did hate deceit. I never—”

“By the way,” said the president, “I thought you had such a bad headache that you could not go out to-day.”

“That was when mamma wanted me to accompany her to a meeting at the orphan asylum, dear. I felt ever so much better after she was gone.”

“I am so glad you care so much for the club,” said the president. “I gave up a luncheon at my mother-in-law’s, in order to come, myself. I wanted awfully to go—all the other guests were lovely old ladies—perfect walking encyclopÆdias on the subject of servants, and the proper time to hunt moths or cut first teeth.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, dear,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Tom’s mother sent you a message by me that she had put the luncheon off until Friday because you were so disappointed at your inability to be present.”

“Well, if she expects me to waste a whole morning on those old frumps, she is very much mistaken, that is all. And you are no true friend of mine, or you would have told her I had an engagement for that day, too!”

“Humph! You seem to forget that I am afraid of her, too. She was my old Sunday-school teacher, and she would as lief be disagreeable to me as to you. Besides, it is not as if Tom had no unmarried brothers. One has to consider her feelings, you know, and—”

“Very true, dear. You always were charitable, Emily—I can just as well go to bed with a cold on Friday. Well, I fear we must adjourn now. What a profitable meeting we have had! I only wish Dorothy could have heard some of the arguments that—”

“Yes, indeed, Dorothy needs all of the good sense she can possibly obtain in any form,” murmured the brown-eyed blonde.

“Not now that she is about to be married, dear,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “However, I am sure that nothing save death or a boil on her chin will ever keep her away from another meeting. She says she considers the founding of this club her life work.”

“And a noble one, too,” said the president, warmly. “Well, if ever a girl entered upon matrimony with bright prospects, she is that one. I verily believe she could make Jack Bittersweet do anything she wanted, whether he liked or not!”

“At any rate, she has begun well,” said the brown-eyed blonde, sweetly.

When the girl with the dimple in her chin reached the blue-eyed girl’s home, she ran up the stairs to her friend’s room, two steps at a time, and burst open the door. That young person was discovered, radiant with smiles in spite of the traces of recent tears; she was seated at her desk, and the waste basket was overflowing with crumpled sheets of her best note paper.

“Oh, you dear, Dorothy,” said the visitor, “tell me all about it, do! I was dying to come earlier, but I wanted to see what Frances would do when she heard that Jack was coming here, so I had to stay all through the meeting. Evelyn says that no girl ever had brighter prospects in marrying than you, and—”

“Oh! then, they all know I am to be married, do they? Did Jack tell? I thought he would hold his peace, because—”

“Well, not exactly; but he told me that he was on his way here to ask you to forgive him for everything he ever did! And he said he just wouldn’t come away until you set your wedding-day, and so—”

“Oh! he told you that, did he? Well, it is set, and—”

“Dear old Jack, he must be the happiest fellow in the world, for he—”

“M—I can’t say that he looked it when he went away; however, some people have such a way of concealing their emotions. I never had myself; I am as open as the day—anybody could know just what I intended to do all the time.”

“Of course; I told Jack how it would be from the start. But I don’t see why he looked so melancholy when he came away. Didn’t you set the wedding day early enough to please him?”

“He said he didn’t want to know the day, and—”

“Didn’t want to know the day of his own wedding! Why, the poor boy must be crazy; he—”

“The date of his own wedding! Emily Marshmallow, are you out of your mind? I said the date of my wedding, and—”

“Would you mind feeling my pulse, dear, or examining my eye to see if there is a look of insanity in it! For really, I don’t see how you and Jack can be married to each other on different days, unless you are thinking of matrimony on the instalment plan; and that—”

“Married to each other? Jack Bittersweet and I? Why, Emily Marshmallow, you haven’t listened to a word I have been saying, when I have been telling you for the last half hour I am to marry Clarence Lighthed, the only man I ever loved, next month, and—”

“Oh, Dorothy, don’t! If Jack did not ask you to marry him to-day, it was only that he hadn’t the courage, and—”

“He did, dear—twice. But you see, I had accepted Clarence an hour before he came. Well, it is a great comfort to know that I never encouraged poor Jack! You will bear me out in that, I know. And oh, Emily, Clarence is the dearest person in the world! You can’t imagine how happy first love makes one! I—I wouldn’t say a word to Frances now if I saw her with one eyebrow a full half inch higher than the other. But, what is the matter? You—”

“I—I feel a little faint, dear; that is all. Did you—er, try to soften the blow to Jack?”

“I did. I advised him to marry Frances; said that I knew she would make him happier than I could ever have done, and their marriage was the one thing needed to complete my own happiness.”

“Well, he wouldn’t marry her now if—not if she was a wealthy young widow. Did—did Jack say anything about me?”

“Why, er—yes; he seemed sort of offended with you for something. I don’t know what it was. The only reference I made to you in our whole conversation, was to tell him that you had seen all along that I intended to marry Clarence. Of course if you had not been able to make him understand that fact, it was his own stupidity, and not your fault. Oh, I tell you, I always defend my friends—even before they are attacked! But what is the matter? You look sort of queer?”

“I—I was only wondering what they would say at the club! They—they seemed to have an idea that you would marry Jack, and—”

“Marry Jack Bittersweet! What on earth could have put such an idea into their heads? I only hope, Emily, that you—”

“Oh, no, dear; nothing of the kind. I—I merely told them that he was on his way to ask you to marry him, and—”

“Very thoughtful it was of you, dear. I only wish I could ask you to be bridesmaid for your pains; but Clarence has somehow gotten an idea that you are not a friend of his. There was no one else to oppose the match, and I—I doubt if he’d have asked me quite as soon if you hadn’t; so I shall try to forgive you, in time, for the things you have said about him.”

The girl with the dimple in her chin gasped, but her only reply, was: “I really don’t know what the other members of the club will say. They—”

“The club. I am so glad you mentioned it. There was a meeting to-day, was there not? I was just writing Evelyn a letter when you came in, saying—”

“That you want us to meet twice a week after this! How nice; that is just—”

“No, dear; it was a letter of resignation I was writing. Dear Clarence has such a horror of intellectual women, that I—”

“But, Dorothy, you know when you founded the club, you said the membership would be for life, and—”

“Emily Marshmallow, I never said anything of the kind! And, if I did, only a person of your colossal selfishness would expect me to waste my time on a mere club when I want to devote eighteen hours a day to the selection of my trousseau, and the other six to Clarence! And, if you want to know my real opinion of the club, I consider it the greatest bore among my social duties!”[308]
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