“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!”