“The poster girl!” murmured Polly under her breath.
“I’d rather be called a poster girl than a mummy,” said Clarissa, “though you, Jane, in your brown merino would be more welcome at some functions than others I could name in purple and fine linen.”
“And I will wear my brown dress and never look too fine,” hummed Polly. “You remember that Jennie Wren married Cock Robin, who seems to have been a fairy prince among the birds. Every one knows that you are sure of a summa cum, Jane Townall, so that you ought to be able to wear what you like at any time.”
“I can’t speak for Jane,” interposed Julia, “but I am sure that in accepting invitations we ought to think of what the hostess would like. Don’t frown, Clarissa.”
“Oh, of course you are more in society than we are.”
“Nonsense, that isn’t fair,” replied Julia. “But college girls ought to place themselves above the criticisms of those who do not look below the surface.”
“One shouldn’t think too much of appearances. Who cares for narrow-minded people? We must take the world as we find it.”
“I suppose so,” sighed Clarissa. “If I had worn a conventional Boston costume, perhaps Mrs. Blair would not have gazed at me the other day as if I were some newly discovered species. Next year I’ll appear out in—”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” cried Polly, “but let us do the proper thing by putting the matter to the vote.”
“Resolved, that no Radcliffe student shall accept an invitation to a festivity in Cambridge, or the adjoining suburb Boston, unless arrayed in a becoming light gown.”