Woman as a Parliamentarian
“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!”