“Funny some of us didn’t!”
“That will be easy. Call the ten of us together Friday afternoon,—no, because we’ll have to send for the ribbon.”
“No time like the present. We can decide on the colors after dinner tonight.”
“When will Cathalina have the invitations ready?”
“Tomorrow. She is just fixing some tiny cards in envelopes, not much on them, inviting them to ‘become members of the Shakespearean Literary Society.’ I hope nobody will refuse.”
“Well, after they are all initiated, what then?”
“The program. Ay, there’s the rub!”
“Easy. Get Lilian and Eloise to sing a duet. They were trying a lovely one. Then ask Dorothy Bryant to play a piano solo, tell her she is going to be invited to join and we need her. Evelyn will give us a dialect story, I’m sure, and, let’s see. O, there’s Ruth Russell with her violin. Do you remember how well she played last year?”
“Yes. You’re a whole program committee by yourself, Isabel.”
Isabel looked pleased. “We ought to have another literary number,” she said, “but the trouble is that nobody has time to get up anything new. I wonder if Cathalina has that pretty little story that she wrote for the class last year. She tried it out on me, but nobody much has heard it. She got an A on it, but I think she said that when she read it half the girls were out with grippe. Anyhow they were the collegiates. It was the composition with the Lit. class.”