“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.”