"It's about as hard as getting a cheap dressmaker to make simple clothes," she said. "Amateurs always want to put in ruffles and puffles." The two girls were seated at the editorial desk. There was a pile of manuscript in front of Molly: themes recommended by Miss Pomeroy for publication and contributed book reviews. Presently only the ticking of the clock on the book shelves broke the stillness. Both girls had plunged into work with a will. Edith's soft pencil was already flying over the sheets. "Flowing easily and lightly," Molly thought, smiling as she turned a page. For more than half an hour they worked in silence. At last Molly, having selected from the reviews the ones she considered best for publication, leaned her chin on her hand and closed her eyes. How peaceful it was in this little office, and how nice to be with Edith who went at her work--this kind of work--with force and swiftness. Rap, rap, rap, came the sound of knuckles on the door, while some one shook the knob and the voice of Judy called: "Let me in, let me in, girls, I've got something to show you that will make your blood boil." "Run away, we're awfully busy," answered Edith, who kept the door to the private office locked. "I tell you it will make your blood boil with rage and fury," went on the extravagant Judy. "As editors of the _Commune_, everybody calls on you to resent an insult to college. Please let me in," she pleaded. Molly opened the door and her impetuous friend rushed in, waving a newspaper. "Be calm, child. Don't take on so. Sit down and tell us easily and lightly and flowingly what's the matter," she said. "Look at this base, libelous article," Judy ejaculated, spreading the paper on the table. With an expression of amused toleration as of one who must bear the whims of a spoiled child, Edith drew the paper in front of her while Molly and Judy seated themselves on the arms of her chair and read over her shoulders. The first things that caught their eyes were the pictures: drawings of wildly disheveled beings in gymnasium suits playing basket ball and hockey. One picture, also, represented a blousy looking young person in a sweater, carrying a bundle of linen under one arm and a bottle of milk under the other. In still another this same blousy model was yelling "Hello" to her twin sister across the page. They saw her again in the drug store dissipating in chocolate sundaes; and once more, chewing gum; hobnobbing with the grocery boy, too, or perhaps it was the baggage man or the postman. The article occupied a full page under flaring headlines: "THE PRESENT DAY COLLEGE GIRL, NO LONGER A PLEASING FEMININE TYPE. SHE IS VULGAR, AGGRESSIVE, SLANGY. COLLEGES FOR GIRLS THE RUIN OF AMERICAN HOMES--So says Miss Beatrice Slammer, the popular writer and well-known anti-suffragist." "It's ironic, untrue and insulting," observed Edith, in a choking voice as her eyes traveled down the columns.