“Then, we can make it a rule, right now,” said the blue-eyed girl, calmly. “I know just how it would be if we let Clarissa into the club—she’d insist upon having everything her own way right along. I hate such selfishness myself, and—”
“So do I,” said the president; “by the way, oughtn’t we to make a note of that rule, at once?”
“What would be the use of that?” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, “we have all heard it. Oh, girls, I already see the benefit we are to derive from the influence of this club! Not a single soul has said a word in regard to Clarissa’s pretentions to being only twenty-three!”
“Why, that’s true,” cried the president, “and very considerate of us it was, too, when we all know how ridiculous it is!”
“Oh, girls, I must tell you something,” cried the girl with the eyeglasses. “I went with Clarissa to a reception given by her literary club the other evening and it was simply awful!”
“Not a decent toilet in the room, of course,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“Oh, I didn’t expect that—I knew it was a culture club. It seems that there had been an awful time over the programme. Some of the members wanted to have an Ibsen evening, while others declared for Browning. Finally, they decided upon a mixed programme, selections from them both, you know. I did not know that when I went.”
“I should think not,” said the girl with the Roman nose, “otherwise, you—”
“Would gladly have accepted the invitation—and been suddenly taken ill on the appointed day, of course. Well, when the papers and selections were being read, I studied my programme to keep my eyes from those appalling coiffures, and when I saw the word ‘Music’ on it, I felt like a person who has found an oasis in a desert!”
“And had you?” queried the president, who had left the platform and joined the group about the narrator.