"We agreed about the dances," said Miss Twombly; "I shall adore coming to them! Won't they be killing?" A hum of voices followed this, in which was heard: "But their horrible frocks!"—"In the end they would thank us!"—"Give them a vision of a larger, more helpful life!"
"I shall not subscribe to a reformatory," said Cecilia loudly. She hated to say it, but an echo of some one who had wanted a "bunnit with pink roses on" flew before her. She meant to do all she could to help other people get, and keep, their particular brands of pink roses.
Cecilia's contribution for the club's maintenance was large. It was agreed that for the present at least no helpful hints as to the bad taste of its members' clothes should be given. Cecilia looked at a small watch, and got up. She said good-bye pleasantly. When the door closed after her there was a surge of noise.
"Well," said Annette in a carrying tone, "of course she would sympathise. I suppose her own tastes are really theirs. Have you ever seen her father?"
"She plays 'The Shepherd Boy,' and 'The Storm in the Alps' for him every evening," said the bizarre.
"My dear," said another, "have you seen the boy? He is really quite possible and they say that the horrible old man is fabulously wealthy too."
"Criminal!" breathed Annette. Her eyes were angry and full of resentment.
"Annette," said a girl from across the room, "how are you getting on? I think it's too original of you!"
"You aren't still doing that?" asked another. Annette nodded.
"What?" asked a bewildered onlooker.