“And have you also sworn off from going to the celebration dinners?” inquired Madeline with a wicked smile.
“We haven’t decided about that,” Georgia informed her with dignity. “But please don’t forget,” she added solemnly, “that your crowd began this foolish club idea, and has done a lot to develop it. It was you principally that we meant to hit off.”
Madeline grinned. “I really wish you were eligible to the B. C. A.’s,” she said, “because then we could see how manfully you would resist temptation. But it will be at least a year before you can any of you possibly meet—well, we’ll call it the age limit. So don’t waste time hunting over the bulletin-boards for a notice of your election.”
“We are generally considered rather frivolous,” Georgia told her severely, “but we do stick to our principles—of which the anti-club idea is one that we cherish greatly.”
“Though you’ve very recently acquired it,” murmured Madeline.
“Very,” agreed Georgia cheerfully. “Good-night.”
Outside the bewildered Dutton twins sorrowfully took Georgia to task for spoiling forever their chances with the B. C. A.’s.
“Are you crazy?” demanded Straight.
“Don’t you remember why we started the whole doll business?” asked Fluffy.
Georgia, who had been rather absent and constrained during the afternoon’s adventures, gazed at them pityingly. “You little innocents!” she said at last. “Can’t you see what she’s done for us? Imagine the mud that two hundred girls have tracked through the Belden House halls. Imagine the rage of the matron, and the things that some of the faculty prigs will say about this whole business. I’ve been worried to death all day, to tell you the truth. But now we don’t have to care. We’re reformers. We’re disciples of the simple life, giving demonstrations of the foolishness of over-organization. We’re sorry about the mud and all that, of course. We’re—anyhow, I demand the satisfaction of telling Christabel Porter the truth about us. I can’t bear to have her explain us wrong, after all her trouble.” Georgia splashed into a puddle and exclaimed angrily at the incident. “What in Christendom can B. C. A. stand for?” she muttered wrathfully, stamping off the mud.