ONYX SERIES
THE ETERNAL
FEMININE
By
CAROLYN WELLS
NEW YORK FRANKLIN BIGELOW CORPORATION THE MORNINGSIDE PRESS PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1913, by FRANKLIN BIGELOW CORPORATION ONYX SERIES THE ETERNAL FEMININE CONTENTS
THE ETERNAL FEMININE AT THE LOST-AND-FOUND DESKYes, that’s my bag. I left it at the lace counter. Thank you. Please give it to me. What? I must prove property? Why, don’t you see it’s mine? That twisty silver monogram on the side is really E. C. S. That’s my name, Ella C. Saunders. I told Jim I thought the letters were too wiggly to be easily read, but I never thought anybody’d want to read it but me. Describe contents? Why, of course I can describe the contents! In one pocket is a sample of lace, just Platte Val, you know, not an expensive lace, and with it—I think it’s with it—is a sample of rose-colored crÊpe de Chine—that is, not exactly rose-colored—sort of crushed plummish or burnt magenta—but no—come to think, I left those samples with my dressmaker. Well, anyway, there’s a Subway ticket—or let me see, did I use that coming down? I believe I did! Well, there’s a little memorandum card that slips in—the celluloid sort, you know. No, there’s nothing written on it. I don’t use it because, though they pretend you can wash them like a slate, you can’t. They just smudge. What do you mean by saying I haven’t told a definite thing yet? I’ve told you lots! Well, there’s some money—I don’t know how much; some chicken feed, as Jim calls it—and a five-dollar bill, I think—oh no—I paid that to the butcher. Well, there must be a one-dollar bill—two, maybe. Oh, and there’s a little pencil, a goldy-looking one; it came with the bag. And some powder-papers—those leaves, you know; but I believe I did use the last one yesterday at the matinÉe. Oh, dear, how fussy you are! I tell you it’s my bag; I recognize it myself. Can’t I tell you of some personal belongings in it so you’ll be sure? Why, yes, of course I can. My visiting-card, Mrs. James L. Saunders, is in that small inside pocket. “Why didn’t I tell you that in the first place? Why, you rattled me so; and besides, I thought I had to tell of my own little individual properties, like samples and tickets and things. Anybody might have her visiting-card in her bag!” TOOTIE AT THE BANK“Oh, how do you do? Are you the Paying Teller? Well,—that is,—could I please see somebody else? You see, I’ve just opened an account, and I want to get some of my money out. There’s the loveliest hat in Featherton’s window, marked down to—but, that’s just it! If I get my money from a Professional Teller, he’ll tell all about my private affairs, and how much I pay for my hats, and everything!” “Not at all, Miss. We are called Tellers because we never tell anything about our depositors’ affairs. We’re not allowed to.” “Oh, how lovely! Well, then,—if you won’t tell—I’ve never drawn a check before, and I don’t know how! Will you help me?” “Certainly; but I must ask you to make haste. Have you a check-book?” “How curt you are! I thought you’d like to help me. Men ‘most always do. Yes, I have a check-book,—that other clerk gave it to me. But I don’t like it, and I want to exchange it. See,—it has a horrid, plain black muslin cover! Don’t you have any bound in gray suÈde, with gilt edges. I’m willing to pay extra.” “We have no other kind, Miss. How much money do you want?” “Why, I don’t know. You see, Daddy put a thousand dollars in this bank for me. I suppose I may as well take it all at once. What do you think?” “I think probably your father meant for you to take only a part of it at a time.” “Yes; I think so, too. He said it would teach me business habits. He chose this bank because you have a special department for ladies. But if this is it, I don’t think much of it. To be sure the plate glass and mahogany are all right,—but it looks like ‘put up complete for $74.99.’ Don’t you think Mission furniture and Chintz would be cozier? Yes, yes, I’ll draw my check! Do give me a moment to draw my breath first. You see I’m not used to these things. Why, with a real bank account of my own, I feel like an Organized Charity! I suppose I ought to hunt up some Worthy Poor! Well, I’ll just get that hat first. Now, let me see. Oh, yes, of course you may help me, but I want to do the actual drawing myself. It’s the only way to learn. Why, when I took Art lessons, I made a burnt-wood sofa pillow all myself! The teacher just stood and looked at me. He said I had Fate-sealing eyes. Why, you’re looking at my eyes just the way he did! You seem so rattled,—why do you? Don’t you know how to draw a check, either?” “Oh, yes, indeed; I have drawn millions of checks.” “Millions of checks! How exciting! What do you do with all your money?” “Oh, it isn’t my money, you know.” “Aren’t you ashamed to be drawing millions and billions of other people’s money! I have a friend who is engaged to a bank president who got caught drawing checks.” “Excuse me, but how much money do you want to draw?” “How much is it customary for ladies to draw?” “Well, that depends upon how much they need.” “Oh, I see. People in need draw more than those in comfortable circumstances, I suppose. I am not exactly what would be called ‘a needy person.’ Since I left school, of course, I have my own allowance. Do you approve of girls being put on an allowance, or do you think it is nicer for them to have accounts with the trades-people, and not be treated like children?” “I should think that would depend. Would a check for $100.00 be enough for to-day? What did you have in mind to use it for?” “I think you are very impertinent. I am surprised that people in banks are allowed to ask such questions. Why should you concern yourself with how much money I want?” “I was endeavoring to help you about your check.” “Oh, yes, certainly. How could you possibly draw checks if you didn’t know how much the checks were to be! I like checks much better than stripes or plaids. Lucille is making me a beautiful walking suit that is the loveliest imported check that you ever saw. And checks are nice for men, don’t you think?” “Is it for the hat or for the suit that you want to draw a check?” “Yes, of course, it is for the hat at Featherton’s that I want the check. I am afraid you will think I am silly, but really I have so many things to think about that it is hard to keep my mind on just one thing. You must make allowances for girls who have so many things to think about. Of course, with a man like you, who only has checks and money to think about all day long, it is so easy—I’d be bored if I had nothing but money and checks all day. I should think it would be diverting to have somebody call and talk about something else.” “It is. Come, now, let us make out this check. You must write the number first.” “Oh, isn’t it exciting! Now, wait, let me do it. You just watch out that it’s all right. But are you sure you know how yourself? I’d rather have an Expert to teach me. You know, nowadays, skilled labor counts in everything.” “I assure you I’m competent in this matter, but I must beg you to make haste. Write the number in this blank.” “What number?” “Number one, of course. It’s your first check.” “There! I knew you were ready to tell everything! Suppose it is my first check, I don’t want everybody to know it. Can’t I begin with a larger number, and then go right on?” “Why, yes, I suppose you can, if you like. Begin with 100.” “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’ll begin with 4887. I can make lovely 7’s. Don’t you think 4887 is a pretty number?” “Very pretty, but—” “Now you’re wasting time. There, I’ve written the number. What next?” “The date, please. And the year.” “Well, I’ve written the date, but it spilled all over the year space. It doesn’t matter, though, ’cause it’ll be this year for a long while yet, and this check will be vouched, or whatever you call it, before the year is out.” “But you must write the year.” “But how can I, when there isn’t room?” “Tear that up, and begin a new check.” “And waste all that money! Oh, I didn’t want an account, anyway! I told Daddy it would make me more extravagant! And you’re so cross to me. And here, I’ve spoiled a lot of my money the first thing!” “Oh, no, Miss Young, you haven’t! There, there, don’t look so distressed! I’ll make it all right for you.” “You’ll make it all right! How dare you, sir? Do you dream for a moment I’d take your money to replace my own losses?” “Now, wait, you don’t understand. This check is worthless until it’s signed. Now, we’ll tear it out, so, and begin again. Make smaller letters and figures, can’t you?” “Oh, how cute that check comes out! You just tear it by the little perforated dots, don’t you? Let me tear one out!” “Write it first; you’ll probably spoil it, and have to tear it out.” “How unkind you are! And I’m doing my very best. Don’t find fault with me,—please, don’t!” “Well, don’t wrinkle up your nose like that,—it looks like a crumpled rose petal! And don’t write your name there! That’s the place for the amount!” “Oh, what a fuss! What does it matter, so long as all the spaces are filled? My goodness, the check’s all done, isn’t it? And it’s quite entirely all right, isn’t it?” “Yes, it’s irreproachable. How will you have the money?” “If I take the money, do I have to give you this check?” “Certainly.” “Then I won’t take any money, thank you. I want to take this check home and show it to Daddy. He’ll be so pleased and proud! I know he’ll keep it as a souvenir, and then he’ll give me some of his money for the hat!” THE DRESSMAKER IN THE HOUSESCENE.—A sewing-room, with the usual piles of unfinished or unmended clothing heaped on tables and chairs. Mrs. Lester, a pretty, fussy little woman, is trying on her own gowns and then tossing them aside, one after another. Enter Miss Cotton, a visiting dressmaker. Mrs. Lester: Oh, Miss Cotton, I’m so glad you’ve come! I’m nearly frantic. Excuse the looks of this sewing-room. I don’t see why a sewing-room never can keep itself cleared up! I suppose it’s because they never have any closets in them; or if they do, you have to hang your best dresses there—there’s no other place. And so this room gets simply jammed with white work and mending and hats, and I don’t know what all! My husband says it’s like the Roman Forum done in dry-goods. But he’s a regular Miss Nancy about neatness and order. Now, to-day, Miss Cotton, we’re going to do sleeves. See? Sleeves! And nothing else. I’m simply driven crazy by them. Oh, don’t look as if you didn’t know what I meant! You know, all my gowns have elbow sleeves, and I must either have long ones put in or throw the whole dress away. Yes, I know I said I’d wear the short sleeves, if other people did insist on having long ones. I know I said I’d be independent, and at least wear out the ones I have. But I’m conquered! I admit it! It isn’t any fun to go to a luncheon and be the only woman at the table with elbow sleeves! Yesterday I went to Mrs. Ritchie’s Bridge, and my partner, that big Mrs. Van Winkle, with chains of scarabs all over her chest till she looked like the British Museum, kept pulling her long sleeves down farther over her knuckles just to annoy me. Yes, I know it, my forearm is white and round, but I declare it makes me feel positively indecent to go with it bared nowadays. If those suffrage people would only get for women the right to bare arms, they’d do something worth while. No, indeed, I can’t afford to get new gowns. These are too good to throw away. Well, they may not be the latest style, but I don’t want those bolster-slip arrangements for mine. Mrs. Van Bumpus, now—you know her, don’t you? Well, it would take two kimonos to go round her, I’m sure; and I saw her the other day in one of those clinging satin rigs. My! she looked exactly like a gypsy-wagon, the kind that has canvas stretched over its ribs. No, it’s sleeves, sleeves, I’m after to-day—and that’s why I sent for you. I’m going to superintend them, you understand, but I want you to help, and to do the plain sewing. Well, to begin on this mauve crÉpon. I want to wear it this afternoon, and I think we can easily get it done, between us. I’ve bought a paper pattern—I bought three—for I mean to spare no expense in getting my sleeves right. So I bought three different makes, and think this one is best. It was a sort of bargain, too, for they sold the sleeve pattern and a pattern for little boys’ pajamas, all for ten cents. I don’t know what to do with the pajamas pattern—so that does seem a waste. I’ve no little boy, and I shouldn’t make pajamas for him if I had. I think the one-piece nighties far more sensible. If you know of any one who has a little boy, I’ll sell that pattern for half price. Still, ten cents wasn’t much to pay for this sleeve pattern. You see, it’s really three sleeve patterns. One plain, with dart; one plain, without dart; and one tucked. I’ll use them all, in different waists, but for this mauve crÉpon, I think, we’ll try the tucked one. It would be sweet in net or chiffon. Yes, I bought both materials, for I didn’t know which you’d think prettier; I trust a great deal to your judgment and experience, though I always rely on my own taste. Now, here’s the tucked sleeve. Merciful powers! Look at the length of it! Oh, it’s to be tucked all the way up, you see, and that brings it the right length. Wouldn’t it be easier to cut the sleeve from net already tucked? No, that’s so—I couldn’t match the shade in tucked stuff of any sort. I tried in seven shops. Well, let’s see. These rows of perforations match these rows. No—that isn’t right. That would make the tucks wider than the spaces. Why, I never saw such millions of perforations in one piece of paper before! Look here, this isn’t a sleeve pattern at all! It’s a Pianola roll! I’m going to put through and see if it isn’t that old thing in F, or something classic. Cut out the tucked sleeve, Miss Cotton. Oh, wait, I didn’t mean that literally! My husband reproves me so often for using slang. I mean, I won’t have my arms done up in Bach’s fugues; I should feel like a hand-organ. Let’s try this plain sleeve with dart. H’m—“lay the line of large perforations lengthwise of the material.” And here are large perforations sprinkled all over the thing! Oh, no, that isn’t the way! Yes, I’m quite willing you should show me, if you know yourself—but I see these directions confuse you as much as they do me; and if there’s to be a mistake made in cutting this expensive material, I’d rather make it myself. This says, “developed in piquÉ it will produce satisfactory results.” Well, I can’t wear piquÉ sleeves in a crÉpon gown! Can I? There—I’ve cut it! Now, “close seam, gather between double crosses, make no seam where there are three crosses, bring together corresponding lines of perforations—and finish free edges!” Well! I rather guess those free edges will finish me! However, baste it up, Miss Cotton, and I’ll try it on. It’s easy to make sleeves, after all, isn’t it? Why! I can’t begin to get my arm into that pipe-stem! What? I should have allowed seams? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh, no, I didn’t scorn your advice! Why, that’s what I have you here for! Well, those sleeves are ruined. A living skeleton couldn’t get into those. It’s most confusing, the way some patterns allow seams and some don’t. I was going to get one with “all seams allowed,” but it had another part to it—a “brassiÈre.” I don’t know what that is, but probably some sort of a brass pot or other bric-À-brac junk, and I don’t want any more of that. The den is full now. Well, I’m tired of making sleeves. What do you think, Miss Cotton, of just adding lace lower halfs? I bought a lovely pair, in case the sleeves didn’t turn out well. Now, I’ll put on the bodice, and you pin them on, and we’ll see how they look. Oh, they’re not nearly long enough! They ought to come well below my wrists. And such beautiful lace—it’s a shame not to use them. Yes, perhaps a band of lace at the elbow might help. No, that looks awfully patchy—take it away. A ruching at the wrist? No, nobody wears that. Oh, dear, what can we do? I must have this gown for this afternoon! Here’s a pair of long lace sleeves, whole ones, I bought in case I needed them. Would they do? No—the lace doesn’t match that on the bodice. Dye them? No, thank you! I bought some dye once, and the package said on the outside in big letters: “Dyeing at Home! No trouble at all!” and it gave me such a turn, I never could think of wearing a dyed sleeve! What can I do? I believe I’ll wear them as they are. I hate long sleeves anyway. They get so soiled, and they bag at the elbows, and they’re terribly unbecoming. Oh, I’ve a whole black net guimpe! I bought it, thinking it might be useful for something. Suppose we rip out these sleeves, and the lace neck, and just wear the bodice over this guimpe! Oh! oh! it looks horrid! just like an old-fashioned “jumper” suit! You’ll have to put the neck back as it was. But then what can we do with the sleeves? Nothing! Just nothing! I shall have to stay at home until I can get some entirely new gowns made. It’s a sin and shame, the way we poor women have to be slaves to Fashion! And I know, just as soon as I am fitted out with long sleeves, the pretty, short ones will come in style again! THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMASSCENE.—The Pelhams’ living room. It is decorated for Christmas, and on tables are displayed many beautiful gifts that have been sent to Mr. and Mrs. Pelham. Mrs. Pelham (in pretty evening gown and a spray of holly in her hair, looks wistful and discontented. She stands by a table and fingers some of the gifts, and then sits at the piano and hums a snatch of a Christmas carol, and then throws herself into an easy chair. She speaks): Dick, do stop reading the paper, and be Christmassy! It might as well be the eighteenth of July as the twenty-fourth of December, for all the Christmas spirit you show! I do think this is the pokiest old Christmas Eve I ever spent, and I thought it was going to be the loveliest! I thought for once I’d have everything ready ahead of time—and now look at the result! Nothing to do, nothing to enjoy, no surprises. Everybody said, “Let’s buy our gifts early, and so save the poor shopgirls’ lives.” And goodness knows I’m only too glad to help the poor shopgirls in any way I can! Why, I never wait for my change,—if it’s only a few pennies,—and you’d be surprised to see how pleased and surprised they are at that. It’s pathetic to see their gratitude for six cents. Why, the other day Mrs. Muchmore kept me waiting with her a long time to get her nine cents change, and when I suggested that she come away without it, and let the shopgirl have it, she looked at me as if I had robbed her. Well, then we were late for the matinÉe, and had to take a taxicab; so she didn’t make much, after all. No; I’m a great friend of the shopgirl, and I’m glad to do all I can for them; but this buying Christmas presents in October is so tame and uninteresting! Then I bought all my tissue paper and holly ribbon and fancy seals in November; and early in December I had the whole lot tied up and labeled. I had three clothes-baskets full of the loveliest looking parcels! And then they sat around till I was sick of the sight of them! Don’t you remember, Dick, how you used to tumble over them in the guest rooms? And you said I was a dear, forehanded little wife to have them all ready so soon? You’ll never have such a forehanded little wife again, I can tell you! And then, to save the poor expressman, everybody is urged to send their presents early nowadays. So I sent mine all off a week ago. And everybody sent theirs to me a week ago. To be sure, this plan has the advantage that often I can see what someone else sends me, before I send a return gift. My! it was lucky I saw Bertha Hamilton’s Armenian centerpiece before I sent her that veil case! I changed, and sent her an Empire mirror, and she’ll think her centerpiece rather skinny now! But, all the same, I hate this fashion. Why, I’ve had all this junk set out on tables four days now, and I’m tired of the sight of it. And even the p-p-paper and st-string are all cleared away. No—Dick—I’m not crying, and you needn’t try to coax me up! Well, of course, it isn’t your fault, though you did egg me on. But everybody does it now, and we’ve even written our notes of thanks to each other. I always used to dread doing those the day after Christmas; but now it makes me homesick to think they’re all d-done. And even this lovely necklace you gave me I’ve had it a w-week, and it doesn’t seem like a Christmas present at all! Yes, I know I gave you your gold cigarette case two weeks ago; but I wanted to be sure you liked it before I had it monogrammed. It seems now as if I had given it to you last year. Oh, I think it used to be lovely when we didn’t get our things until Christmas Eve or Christmas Day—and then some belated presents would come straggling along for days afterward! And the night before Christmas we were madly rushing around tying up things, and I’d be up till all hours finishing a piece of embroidery, and you’d have to tear downtown for some forgotten presents, and the bundles were simply piling in, and the expressman would come at midnight, grumbling a little, but very merry and Christmassy! Then I’d have to set the alarm, and get up at five o’clock Christmas morning to press off my centerpiece, and pack off Clara’s box, and do a thousand things before breakfast. And we’d eat breakfast by snatches between undoing parcels and sending off boxes. And the rooms were knee-deep with a clutter of paper and strings and excelsior and shredded tissue, and—oh, it was lovely! And now—all that has been over for a week! And it really didn’t happen then; for it’s all been gradual since October. And here it is Christmas Eve, and not a thing to do! And to-morrow morning it’ll be Christmas, and not a thing to do! Oh, Dick, it’s perfectly horrid, and I’ll never, never get ready for Christmas early again! I’m so lonesome for the hurry and rush of an old-fashioned Christmas Eve! What’s that? You’ll take me downtown—now? Down to the shops? ’Deed I will get my coat and hat! There isn’t a soul left to buy a present for; but we can buy some things for next year—Oh, no, no, not that! But we’ll buy some things and give them to the shopgirls. And, at any rate, we’ll get into the bustle and cheer of a real Christmas Eve! Come on, Dick, I’m all ready! Merry Christmas, Dick! A NEW RECRUIT“Oh, good morning, Miss Coggswell! Do sit down. Yes, isn’t it? So spring-like and balmy. Oh, not at all; I’m never busy. I’m always glad to see callers. On business? Oh, I don’t know anything about business! About Suffrage! Why, you look so lady-like! Become a Suffragist? Me? Oh, I’m happily married! Oh, excuse me! I don’t mean but what you are far happier unmarried—of course you are, or you wouldn’t have stayed so. But—well, really, I don’t know the first principles of this suffrage business. Not necessary? Oh, I think I ought to know what I’m joining; and, besides, the suffrage people are such frumps. What! They’re going to dress better? Well, I’m glad of it. But, really, you know, I’m not a bit suffragy. Why, I’m afraid of a mouse, and I just love lingerie ribbons! And, anyway, I should vote just as Bob told me to, and I’m sure everyone else would, so it would just double the men’s votes, you see. The unmarried women? Yes, that’s so; I’d forgotten them. But I suppose they’d ask their brothers-in-law or their ministers or somebody, for you certainly can’t tell how to vote by reading the papers! “Oh, it’s all in the future, and you only want me to help the cause? What! as an ornament? Oh, Miss Coggswell! Why, I don’t know? Who? Oh, Mrs. Hemingway-Curtis! And Mrs. Vanderheyden-Wellsbacher! Oh, why they wear lovely clothes! They’re the kind of people that might be called ‘classy.’ I never use that word, but somehow it seems to fit them. They want notoriety, the same as the people in the country papers who have their back fence painted. “And you want me to write papers? Oh, yes, I could do that. I belong to the Pallas At Home Circle. You just tell the government how to make the laws, and you purify politics, and things like that. That part is easy enough. Of course I’ve kept up with the suffrage movement; one must be intelligent. I know all about how they want the shirtwaist makers not to make so many waists, and I don’t wonder! I don’t wear them any more, anyway; nobody does. “And vivisection? Oh, yes, I read a lot about that. They want poor, dumb animals to have a vote. Oh, I understand those things well enough, but I’m really too busy to do much about them. Oh, you only want me to lend my name. Yes, I do want honest politics; but I think they’re too honest as it is. They won’t let you smuggle in a little bit of lace or anything like that, as we used to do. I don’t mind paying the customs, but it’s so much more fun to smuggle! As if two or three little bits of lace would hurt the United States government! “Equal rights? Have half of Bob’s money? Oh, I have more than that now! What! Some women don’t? Well, if they don’t know how to get it, they don’t deserve to have it. “And, then, you see, I’m such a home-body, and I’m perfectly daffy over my children! You should see Bobbins since he had his curls cut off! Broke my heart; but such a duck of a mannie! And Gwen is the dearest baby! Just think! Yesterday she was eating her bread and jam, and she said—Oh, well, of course, if you haven’t time to listen—Yes, I see,—business. “Well,—Oh, I never could speak in public! Oh, just sit on the stage and wear lovely gowns? Yes, I’d rather like that. “Well, I suppose I might be persuaded to become a suffragist; but I think I’d rather have an aeroplane. “Yes, I do believe in independence. I think every woman ought to have a mind of her own and decide upon her own actions. I hate a wobbly-minded woman! Well, about this suffrage business, I’ll ask my husband and do as he says.” SHOPPING FOR POSTAGE STAMPS“You keep stamps, don’t you?” “Yes, Miss; what kind?” “Why, I don’t know. But I want something that will go well with blue note paper.” “Yes, miss; do you want letter postage?” “Of course! I want to post letters, not chairs or tables!” “Where are the letters to? United States?” “Be careful young man, or I’ll report you for rudeness. I won’t tell you where the letter is going, it’s private correspondence, but it is in the United States.” “Then you want a two-cent stamp; here you are.” “Oh, red ones! Never! Do you suppose I’d put that sickly shade of crushed gooseberry juice on my robin’s egg blue envelopes? Is this the nearest thing you have in two-cent stamps?” “The very latest style, I assure you.” “Well, they won’t do. Why, they aren’t fit for anything, unless to make a stamp plate with. Haven’t you any blue ones?” “Yes, we have a nice line of blue ones, at five cents each.” “Oh, the price doesn’t matter; let me see them, please.” “Here they are, beautiful shade of blue.” “H’m; good enough shade, but it doesn’t quite harmonize with my envelopes. You see they are a sorty of greenishy-blue, and your stamps are more indigoish. Do you expect any new ones in?” “Well, not any different colors.” “Oh, dear, that’s always the way! But maybe I could take some of these and dye them with my Easter egg dyes, to match my paper. I did that with some lace, and it worked awfully well! What’s the lightest color you have?” “These pale green ones are as light as any. But if you dye them blue you can’t use them.” “Why not?” “The government won’t allow it.” “How mean! As if it made any difference to them what color stationery people use! It almost makes me want to be a suffragette when I hear of such tyranny! Not that I’d really be one! I’m too fearfully afraid of a mouse! But I’d like to have a few rights about postage stamps. I do think the selection is very limited. There’s more beauty and variety in cigar bands. Well, I’ll look at these violet ones. How much are they?” “These are three cents apiece.” “H’m, two for five cents, I suppose. Well, I could get violet note paper, and use violet ink; then these stamps would do nicely.” “And they’d match your eyes fairly well, too.” “Isn’t that queer! Everybody says I have violet eyes, but, really they’re not a bit the color of these stamps, you know.” “No? Look at me and let me see; well, no, they’re not exactly the same shade, but they’re violet eyes, all right. How many stamps will you have?” “Two, please; but won’t you give them to me out of the middle of the sheet? Those around the edge seem a little faded.” “We can’t tear stamps out of the middle of a sheet!” “Oh, yes, you can, if you try—if I ask you to try! I’ll take that one, and that one!” “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. This one did you say? And this one?” “Yes, please. Will you wrap them up in a neat parcel, and send them? Good morning.” AT THE BRIDGE TABLE“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Sevier, I’m going to play at this table. Where do I sit? Here? Perhaps you’d rather have this seat, with your back to the light, don’t you know? Cut for partners? Ace low. Why, isn’t that funny! I always thought the ace was the highest card of all, if you don’t use a joker. And you don’t in Bridge. Do you? No; I haven’t played very much, but I’m quick at catching on. I always say Bridge is for those who are too old or too married to flirt. Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sevier, of course you’re not either! Well, I know you’ve been married twice, but that isn’t much nowadays. I’m perfectly sure I never shall be married at all. Of course, I’m only nineteen, but I think I look older. No? Well, one can’t tell about one’s looks. Mother says very few sensible men would want to marry me! But I tell her very few would be enough. Now, you needn’t laugh at that, Mr. Chapman, it’s quite true. Are you my partner? No? Oh, I play with Mr. Ritchie, and you play with Mrs. Sevier. Very well, let’s begin.” “Shall we play Lilies?” “Play Lilies? Why, Mr. Chapman, I thought we were to play Bridge! I took half a dozen lessons a year ago. I haven’t played since, but I’ve a marvelous memory. Oh, I see, you’re just chaffing me, because my name is Lilly! You mean you’ll play Lilly’s game. Now, you’ll excuse me, won’t you, if I sort my cards face down, on the table? Why, I seem to have five suits! I declare, my hand is a perfect rubbish heap! Oh, Mrs. Sevier, have you joined that new City Beautiful Club? I’m on the Rubbish Committee, and I have to read a paper on the Æsthetic decoration of ash cans, or Art in Rubbish. It’s such fun! I love women’s clubs. I’m going to join another. I forget what it’s called, but they want poor, dumb animals to have a vote, or something like that. Well, come on, people, let’s play Bridge. Oh, don’t look like that, Mr. Ritchie! Gay and festive, please! Is it my deal? Well, you just deal for me. I always come out wrong. “What are my conventions? Really, I haven’t any. I’m the most unconventional person you ever saw. Why, mother says—but speaking of conventions, our Federated Clubs are going to have a stunning convention next week. That’s where I’m going to read my paper. I’ve a screaming new costume—and a hat! Well, if I began to tell you about that hat it would interrupt our game. Wait till I’m Dummy, Mrs. Sevier, and I’ll tell you. I expect these men wouldn’t really care to—Oh, my discard? Yes, indeed—I—why, yes, of course I always discard spades. They count the least, you know.” “Unless they’re lilies.” “Oh, Mr. Ritchie! How dear of you! Do you really set such store by my spades? Now, that’s a partner worth having! I love to play Bridge, if I can have my own way. Do you know, of all things, I hate disapproval. I just can’t stand it if people are cross to me!” “You don’t even avail yourself of a cross-ruff, do you?” “Oh, Mr. Ritchie, how witty! Did I overlook a chance? That reminds me of a lady in our club, Mrs. Ruff. You see, she hasn’t a very becoming husband—at present—and she always looks so discontented, we call her the Cross Ruff! Yes—yes—I am going to play. I was just thinking. “My heavens and earth, Mrs. Sevier, don’t look at me like that! Your eyes are perfect sledgehammers! No, I wasn’t peeking into Mr. Chapman’s hand! But I just chanced to catch a glimpse of his Queen of Hearts—Oh, Mr. Chapman, are you going to the Muchmore’s fancy ball? Because, I’m going as Queen of Hearts, and if you wanted to go as King of Hearts—Hal Breston insists he’s going to take that part, but—well, I want to pique him—Yes, yes, Mrs. Sevier, I know it’s my play, I was just thinking. Bridge isn’t a game you can play thoughtlessly—like Tit-tat-toe. You see, the Dummy is on my right hand—don’t you think that phrase has a funny sound? ‘She sat on her hostess’ right hand?’ How could the poor hostess eat? Yes, yes—there, I’ll play my king. Oh, he’s taken it with the ace! Why, I thought that was out long ago! Well, you made me play so fast, I scarcely knew what I was playing. I’m afraid you’ll think I’m flighty, but really I have so many things on my mind, it’s hard to think of only one at a time. Of course, it’s different with you, Mrs. Sevier. Your life is more in a rut—if you know what I mean. Well, being married, you can’t help that. Yes, I know it’s my play—I was just thinking. I guess I’ll play a diamond. I know I’m returning my opponent’s lead, but I have a reason. Now, don’t scold me, Mr. Ritchie; I simply cannot play if people disapprove of what I do. Yes, smile at me like that, it’s ever so much nicer! You seem a little put out, Mrs. Sevier! Are you holding poor hands? Come, come, if these two gentlemen and I are having such a pleasant game, you must enjoy it, too. What did you bid, Mrs. Sevier?” “I think I shall have to bid adieu.” “Oh, must you go, really? Too bad! Well, good night, and thank you for such a pleasant time. “Now, let us play three-hand auction; it’s a splendid game.” |
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