"And I'm prob'ly the biggest exception," said Mrs. Stout.
"I mentioned no names," replied Mrs. Tweedie, haughtily.
"You don't have to," retorted Mrs. Stout.
Mrs. Tweedie's face was flushed with anger. The others looked frightened, they feared that the open rupture between Mrs. Stout and Mrs. Tweedie, which had been brewing since the first meeting of the club, was about to take place. But Mrs. Tweedie's anger was too intense for words, and after glaring at the cause of her wrath for a moment, she sank back in her chair with the last word trembling on her lips—unspoken.
To dictate, to be absolute, was Mrs. Tweedie's joy—her life; but her power was waning, though she did not realize it. A mild spirit of rebellion had crept into the minds of some of the members which promised to bear fruit before the expiration of her term of office. Mrs. Stout, the only outspoken rebel, caused Mrs. Tweedie more annoyance than any other member because she would speak truths that were certain to hit somebody, and Mrs. Tweedie always presented the most tempting mark.
"What have you learned concerning the orchestra, Mrs. Jones?" asked Miss Sawyer when the temporary cessation of talk had cleared away the clouds.
"Orchestra!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, without giving Mrs. Jones a chance to reply. "An orchestra will cost too much. Can't we get somebody to play the piano for nothing? We're tryin' to make money—anybody can spend it."
Mrs. Tweedie had set her heart upon having an orchestra, and immediately trained her guns on Mrs. Stout's economical proposition and opened fire.
"Money is not the only thing," she said, epigrammatically. "We must not forget what we owe to art. To my mind orchestral music is an absolutely essential adjunct to a Thespian production."