"Here it is, here it is!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, explosively, as she waved a book that she had taken from a table a moment before. "Listen: 'Vanity Fair, a Novel without a Hero,'" she read. "Ain't there a play by that name?"
"Nonsense," sniffed Mrs. Tweedie. "It's full of men, and such men—"
"And a woman," added Mrs. Jones.
"Such a woman," said Miss Sawyer. Mrs. Stout closed the book, and replaced it. She was squelched.
"We are getting on very slowly," sighed Mrs. Tweedie. "Let me suggest a programme." No one objected. "What would you say to the trial scene from the 'Merchant of Venice,' the balcony scene from 'Romeo and Juliet,' a scene from the 'Lady of Lyons,' and a one-act play written by our Miss Sawyer, entitled 'Yellow Roses'?"
There was much to be said, and the discussion began anew, but Mrs. Tweedie was determined to win, and win she did.
"The smell of medicine in a doctor's house," remarked Mrs. Stout, as she walked toward home with Mrs. Thornton, "always makes me feel as though my last day had come."