The Club Investigates Theosophy
“We will discuss to-day: ‘What Theosophy Really Teaches,’” said the
president, as soon as she could make herself heard. “You expressed an
earnest wish to study it,’ Emily, and—”
“Did I?” asked the girl with the dimple in her chin, looking surprised.
“I had quite forgotten it. However, I have been so busy with my new
hats and the chairmanship of a committee appointed to instruct tenement
house mothers as to the best method of bringing up children, that I
have had no time for anything else.”
“And no wonder,” said the girl with the classic profile. “How grateful
those poor ignorant people must be for your instruction!”
“M—I don’t know about that. At times, I am very much discouraged. One
woman said she would gladly allow her children to wear two fresh aprons
a day, if I would pay for the washing of them. Another said that she
had already raised six children without my assistance, and she believed
she could worry on without it a bit longer. Still another was so stupid
that she couldn’t be made to understand how I, who had never had any
children, was able to offer her such valuable suggestions.”
“As if it depended on experience,” said the president. “The theory is
ever so much more important.”
“That was what I said to the woman who— You knew that I had resigned
from that same committee, didn’t you?” said the girl with the Roman
nose.
“Why, no; this is the first I have heard of it. And you were so
enthusiastic, too! What on earth has made you change your mind?”
“A woman. She—”
“Oh! I thought, perhaps, it was a man,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“No. I am not as easily influenced as you are, dear. This woman lived
up six flights of the dirtiest stairs I ever saw. I wondered at the
time why she didn’t ask the landlord to have an elevator put in;
probably she hadn’t thought of it. She lived in two rooms, and you
never saw such awful poverty in your life. I thought, as she was so
awfully poor, she couldn’t have much feeling, so I told her plainly
that she could never expect her children to love and honor her if she
did not at once give them each a hot bath, and put up fresh curtains
and a pot or two of flowers in the windows. Everybody knows how cheap
curtains are nowadays—not the real lace ones, of course, but—”
“Tamboured muslin and all that,” said the president. “Was she grateful
for your interest in her?”
“I fear not. She looked at me, earnestly, and said: ‘You’ve been to one
of them, haven’t you? I’ve always wanted to see somebody that had!’”
“Was the woman mad?”
“I was afraid so, and I began to back out of the door, when she called,
‘Mary Ellen! oh, Mary Ellen! come right in here this minute! Here is a
lady who has been to one of them there beauty doctors we was talking
about yesterday! She must be awful old, for she’s brought up a lot of
children; and come here to teach me how to raise mine; and if that
beauty doctor ain’t fixed her up so she looks real young!’”
“And did Mary Ellen come?” asked the girl with the dimple in her chin,
sympathetically.
“I don’t know. I didn’t wait; but I am almost sure I heard several
people laughing as I came down-stairs. After this, I shall devote my
energies to foreign missions or something like that. If the heathens
are not grateful for my efforts in their behalf, they at least express
themselves in a tongue I don’t understand; and they are too far away
for me to hear them, even if I _could_ understand!”
“Their ingratitude is awful,” wailed the president. “Well, I’m glad
you have told me all this. Otherwise, I never could have had courage
to tell you my last experience with visiting the dwellers in the slums
as a member of the ‘Society for Procuring Better Ventilation in Other
People’s Bedrooms!’ I called on one woman, who really seemed impressed
by my arguments; she was quite polite, and never took her eyes off my
bonnet all the time I was talking to her. I was so pleased with her
that I gave her my address, and told her I would let her have a lot of
pamphlets on the subject, if she would send for them. I knew I could
not get one of my maids to carry them into that district, and besides
her husband could easily come for them. He was a street paver, and no
doubt would be glad to get the exercise.”
“Of course,” said the blue-eyed girl. “Did he come?”
“No. But she herself walked in on my reception day a few weeks later.
She wore a bonnet which was a perfect caricature of mine. She said she
hoped I would forgive her for delaying the returning of my call so
long; and didn’t I think my reception-room was too warm to be quite
healthy?”
“Did you ever hear of such impertinence! and in your own house, too!”
said the girl with the eyeglasses. “What did the other members of the
society say?”
“I don’t know. I resigned, by telephone, as soon as Tom and the doctor
succeeded in bringing me out of my fainting fit.”
“And no wonder,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin,
sympathetically. “And yet, people complain that we take so little
interest in the poor! Only a real philanthropist can appreciate the
rebuffs we receive. The only thing which helps us to bear them, is the
knowledge that we are doing such incalculable good.”
“It is very sweet and good of you to feel so,” sighed the girl with the
eyeglasses. “I don’t know that I am quite so magnanimous, myself. Oh,
Catharine, dear; you were speaking of Mr. Rocksby the other day. Did
you ever hear the end of his affair with Florence?”
“Why, no,” said the girl with the classic profile. “I only knew that it
_had_ an end. How on earth did you find out about it?”
“I heard that she and Effie had fallen out, and I asked Effie all about
it. Of course she was glad enough to tell. It seems that there was a
dance at the club in Arcadia, and Florence went out to stay with the
Brownstones and attend it. Mr. Rocksby happened to meet her at the
station, and went out with her, intending to return by the next train.
It turned out that there was no train back until midnight, so the
Brownstones invited him to dine and go to the dance with them. They
even brought out a dress coat of Mr. Brownstone’s for him to wear, and
Florence told Effie that he looked as if he weighed twenty pounds less
when he put it on.”
“It’s really wonderful the way people always help Florence along,”
sighed the girl with the classic profile. “Nobody ever does such things
for _me_.”
“I fancy Florence wishes they hadn’t for _her_, dear. Well, he was
lovely to her at the dance, and after a while he coaxed her out on the
balcony for a quiet talk. Before she fairly knew what he was about, he
had fallen heavily on his knees and said, ‘Florence, I—’ when she heard
the queerest sound, and he sprang to his feet, with his hand on his
back!”
“Good gracious, I hope the poor old soul hadn’t hurt himself?”
“No; I believe not. But he had split Mr. Brownstone’s dress coat from
top to bottom. And though Florence tried her very best, she never could
coax him to finish the sentence he had just begun!”
“Poor Florence! No wonder she says now she thinks a man looks better
in cycling garb than anything else. The sight of a dress coat must be
enough to make her ill.”
“I should think so,” said the president. “By the way, speaking of
theosophy, I wonder why its stout and elderly devotees wear such
flowing white robes? The younger ones seem content with short hair and
general dowdiness.”
“Good gracious, you will be wondering next why politicians always wear
diamonds or why dressmakers invariably appear in old-fashioned gowns,”
said the girl with the Roman nose; “and I must say, frankly, that I
can’t answer either of those questions. By the way, Evelyn, I suppose I
am to congratulate you. I hear that Tom has just inherited ten thousand
dollars.”
“I don’t know whether you may congratulate me, or not,” said the
president. “Sometimes, I—”
“Oh! Then, there is no truth in the report?”
“Yes, it is true enough, but I don’t know whether I am to be
congratulated or not. You see, I was getting along very well as we
were, and now I see that I need a lot of things I never thought of
before—more than the extra income could possibly cover—and I shall be
absolutely wretched unless I can have them.”
“But you will have some of them, anyhow, won’t you?”
“I’m not sure. Tom talks now of putting all the money into his
business. In that case he will be obliged to work harder, because he
will have more at stake; he says, also, that I shall have to be more
economical than ever because every cent will be needed to extend his
operations. On the whole,” she added, thoughtfully, “I am rather sorry
his aunt is dead. It was ever so much nicer when she was living, and I
could spend the expected legacy royally, in imagination, at least.”
“You poor dear; to think of having cause to regret the death of a
wealthy relative,” said the blue-eyed girl, “but—er—couldn’t Tom put
you on the pay-roll as a clerk, or something?”
“I did suggest that; but he said he’d rather pay me a salary to stay
out of the office. I haven’t spoken to him since.”
“Do you know, I always think it a mistake to stop speaking to any one,”
said the blue-eyed girl; “it seems unkind, and then one loses the
opportunity to say unpleasant things to them, too.”
“I believe you are right,” said the president. “No married man seems to
appreciate speechless indignation, anyhow.”
“I must see you alone a moment, Emily, dear,” whispered the blue-eyed
girl. “Can’t you come with me down to the other end of the room, and
let me pretend to straighten your hair?”
“With pleasure, dear,” replied Emily, but there was no alacrity in her
voice; “only we must not stay too long lest Frances suspect something.”
“What if she does? She would only think we are talking about her—and
I doubt if that would make her particularly comfortable. It is about
Jack. Perhaps, you can pardon his behavior, but for me the last link
which bound us is broken, and I feel now that I can start for India as
a missionary without a pang!”
“My goodness, what has he done now? I’ve been afraid all along,
Dorothy, that you would put off the reconciliation too long. While he
confines his attentions to Frances, it is all right; but some time he
will find out that there are a number of nice girls in the world, and—”
“Frances has nothing to do with it,” she replied, with great dignity.
“It happened this way: I was coming home about dusk yesterday—you
remember how it rained, don’t you? Well, I was so miserable that I
didn’t even attempt to hold up my skirts—it was a kind of a comfort to
let them get thoroughly draggled. A gust of wind blew my umbrella to
one side, and I saw Jack and Mr. Bonds just ahead of me. By the way,
did you ever notice that—er—there is a certain likeness between those
two?”
“I’ve always said they looked enough alike to be brothers. Don’t you
remember, dear, when you were first engaged to Jack, you wouldn’t speak
to me for two weeks because I mentioned the fact?”
“No, I don’t remember. Well, all of a sudden, I felt that I could
forgive Jack all if I could just lay my head on his shoulder, and hear
him say that he was sorry.”
“Oh, Dorothy, dear, I am so glad! He told me this morning that he—”
“If you will kindly allow me to proceed, without interruption, I will
explain how that is now impossible. I was wondering how Mr. Bonds could
be gotten rid of, so that Jack could go home with me and apologize
comfortably before dinner; when he suddenly left him and ran up the
Vansmith’s steps. Jack was walking slowly, and I just shut my eyes,
and made a dash to catch up with him. My own voice sounded like a fog
whistle, as I said: ‘W—wait a moment; I—I wish to speak to you.’ And,
oh, Emily—”
“You surely never mean to say that Jack wouldn’t stop when you called?”
“It wasn’t Jack. It was Mr. Bonds; Jack had gone into the Vansmith
house! But, oh, Emily, if he really loved me, he would have known that
I was right behind him, ready to forgive and forget. I shall sail for
India some time next week, and if I never return, you—”
“But, Dorothy, Jack is only too anxious to make up. He says that a
lover’s quarrel is worse than a Welsh rarebit for keeping a fellow
awake at night. And he told me to tell you—”
“Well, Emily Marshmallow, if this is all the interest you take in
our discussion of theosophy, we might as well adjourn, and go to a
millinery shop or an afternoon tea,” said the president, with some
asperity; “and, after all the trouble I’ve taken in reading everything
the dictionary and the encyclopædia have to say on the subject, I think
you might at least pay attention to my remarks!”
“Dear me, Evelyn, I really beg your pardon. I shall borrow Elise’s
note-book, and study it all out before I sleep. There is nothing so
productive of a good night’s rest as half an hour’s solid reading after
one is in bed. Why, the other night, I took a book on philosophy to
bed with me, and before I had read six sentences I was asleep. I never
woke till nine o’clock in the morning, and the gas was blazing all that
time. I doubt if I’d have waked then if somebody hadn’t knocked at my
door.”
“It was the sweet consciousness of duty well performed,” said the girl
with the Roman nose. “Now, if your book had been a really interesting
novel, you would have been awake half the night.”
“True,” said the girl with the classic profile, “and been as yellow as
a primrose in the morning. I often say that a few pages of really good
literature just before retiring is the best thing in the world for the
complexion. One girl I know says she always reads her Bible then; but I
don’t approve of that—if one falls asleep suddenly, allowing it to drop
heavily upon the floor, it is sure to awaken the other members of the
family. If I do that, my father—”
“I know,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, plaintively.
“Mamma says that if I take any more solid reading to bed I may confront
papa with this month’s gas bill, when it comes in, for she absolutely
refuses to do it!”
“Pshaw, men are all alike; though I didn’t use to think so,” said the
president. “Now, I always forget all about the topic for discussion
until half an hour before it is time to start for the club. A man would
say that he hadn’t time to prepare for it, but a woman’s courage never
deserts her. I am all ready at the appointed time, even if I have to
tell the cook to have anything she chooses for dinner. Now, Tom thinks
I ought to be ready by the day before, even if I have to give up a tea
or a luncheon to do it.”
“The idea!” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Really, women have so
many things to do nowadays that is a wonder they find time for them
all; and yet, men seem to expect them to be just as good housekeepers
as they were when they had nothing else to do. I regret to see that the
sexes have not progressed equally.”
“Indeed they have not,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “Who ever heard of
the new man? And if there _was_ such a creature he would no doubt be so
effeminate that nobody would care anything for him.”
“True,” said the girl with the classic profile, “sometimes, I fear
that Helen’s husband will develop such proclivities. Of course it is
only a harmless eccentricity which makes him sew on his own buttons—I
can overlook that. But the other day he was getting ready to go down
town while she was out on her bicycle. Just because she was wearing one
of his shirts and a collar and tie of his, he dressed up in that lovely
lace collarette of hers, and was actually going out with it on! What
would people have said of a man who appeared in such feminine attire!”
“Goodness me, I hope he is not losing his mind,” said the president.
“However, if he is, Helen is always ready to supply him with a piece
of hers. By the way, girls, what queer questions men do ask! Several
of Tom’s friends dined with us last evening, and they actually wanted
to know why a stout woman always selects a tiny dog for a pet, while a
wisp of a woman will be tugging at the chain of an enormous mastiff. I
simply told them that they must not be so curious, for, though I would
not confess it to _them_, I really could not answer the question.”
“And you were quite right,” said the blue-eyed girl, indignantly; “by
and by, they will actually expect us to give a reason for everything we
do! Which is palpably absurd, since we so often do things without any
reason at all!”
“Well, luckily, we are not responsible for anybody,” said the girl
with the eyeglasses. “Oh! I just wouldn’t be a man for anything in the
world.”
“Would anybody, if he could help it?” queried the brown-eyed blonde.
“Of course, they all pretend to like it, but one can easily see the
hollowness of the pretense. Why, they would not be half so anxious to
criticise our actions if they didn’t feel that we have the best of
things. Of course, I would not be a man for anything—”
“Nor I,” said the president, “and have to give up my comfortable seat
in a street car every time a woman entered.”
“But of course it is only right for them to give up their seats to us,”
said the girl with the dimple in her chin.
“Certainly, it’s right. Only I shouldn’t like to have to do it myself.”
“Of course not. Or to have to pay for pretty things for somebody else
to wear. Or to have to drop a nice book, and go out in the rain to
escort home a girl who had been calling on some one else,” said the
girl with the Roman nose.
“Yes. Or to have to buy candy for somebody else to eat,” said the girl
with the classic profile.
“M’hm. Or to have the nearest woman manage one, without one being aware
of the fact,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “I know! Or to have to
fall in love with a girl, and marry her, just because she had made up
her mind that one should,” said the blue-eyed girl.
“Yes. Well, really the poor things have a great deal to endure, though
many of their sufferings are mercifully hidden from them,” said the
girl with the dimple in her chin. “But, after all, we are very nice to
them, you know.”
“Of course we are,” said the president; “we wouldn’t get nearly so
many things out of them, if we were not. Girls, I hear that Annie has
finally decided to marry Nelson.”
“I thought she had done that long ago,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“Talk of a woman not knowing her own mind. That man never—”
“He knew his own mind well enough, dear. It was only about Annie’s that
he was doubtful,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Annie
told me herself how it came to be settled. She said that she couldn’t
decide whether to accept him or not—”
“Which means that she had done all she could, and was doubtful whether
he would do the rest,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“Perhaps so. At any rate it was still uncertain until last Tuesday.
He had been out of town for several days, and returned unexpectedly.
Annie had gone out to mail a letter, and just as she raised the lid of
the letter-box she saw him coming up the street toward her. As they
walked away together, she glanced down and saw that she still held her
letter in her hand, but her pocket-book was gone!”
“Goodness, you don’t mean to say that she—”
“I do. She said she knew at once that she must care a good deal for a
man whose sudden appearance was enough to make her post her pocketbook
instead of a letter—so she said ‘Yes.’”
“As soon as he asked her,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “Well, what he
can see in _her_, I’m sure _I_ don’t know!”
“What _she_ can see in _him_ puzzles me,” said the blue-eyed girl,
thoughtfully. “I don’t see how any girl can really love and honor a man
who wears red neckties; do you?”
“For _my_ part, I can’t see what they see in each other,” said the
president, thoughtfully. “Well, I really think Annie ought to give me
a handsome present, for it was I who brought it all about.”
“Mercy, did you speak ill of her to Nelson?”
“No; but I told Tom the other day that I didn’t believe that girl would
ever get married. And when I make a remark like that about any girl,
she may as well set about selecting her trousseau, for somebody is sure
to propose to her at once.”
“And yet, I doubt if Annie would be grateful to you, if you told her,”
said the blue-eyed girl, thoughtfully.
“One must not expect gratitude in this world, dear. The consciousness
of having done one’s duty is reward enough for a right-minded person.
By the way, Emily dear, I hear that Dick says he will positively wait
no longer. You must give him a decisive answer one way or the other, or
he—”
“Yes; but he hasn’t yet screwed up the courage to tell _me_ so,
dear. When he _does_, it will be time for me to make up my mind. I
do wonder,” she added, thoughtfully, “why a girl who has one lover
already, is sure to win the affections of another man?”
“Cause and effect,” said the president, gloomily. “I never thought of
buying that new hat until I heard Helen tell the milliner it was too
expensive for her. After I got it home, I found it didn’t match a thing
I possessed. I just believe Helen said that before me for meanness,
knowing I would be compelled to buy it, then. And now the milliner
absolutely refuses to take it off my hands. I threatened to withdraw my
trade if she didn’t; but it had no effect. She knows I have more hats
already than I need for this season, and by the time they are all worn
out—and paid for—I shall have forgotten all about it.”
“But why not pay your bill at once, and open another with somebody
else? That—”
“I don’t care to let Tom see the old bill just now, dear. It wouldn’t
matter ordinarily, but since he inherited that money from his aunt he
is feeling unusually poor, and it might cause a family unpleasantness.”
“How thoughtful you always are, Evelyn! Really, the study of theosophy
seems to have developed your character wonderfully. I do hope you will
explain it all thoroughly to me,” said the girl with the Roman nose; “I
am really so stupid that even after to-day’s discussion, I feel that I
do not fully understand it.”
“Perhaps at some future time,” said the president, hastily. “I am sorry
to say that we really must adjourn now. My mother-in-law is coming
to dine with us, and I don’t want her poking about the house in my
absence.”
Chapter XII
A Discussion and a Surprise
“‘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!”
PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY
& SONS CO. AT THE LAKESIDE
PRESS, FOR WAY & WILLIAMS,
CHICAGO, U.S.A. MDCCCXCVII
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired. This text uses both single
quotation marks and double quotation marks within dialogue. This was
retained as printed.
Page 82, “nowaday” changed to “nowadays” (nowadays don’t intend)
Page 216, “absense” changed to “absence” (bears my absence)
Page 245, removed repeated word “heard” (you heard Miss Blanque)
Page 296, “he” changed to “her” (criticise her painting)