“Why, I have a lot of them, myself,” said the president. “Has anybody seen my hand-bag since I came in?” “Here it is,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “I’ve just been comparing your samples with mine, and I find—” “Goodness me, I’m late,” said the brown-eyed blonde, as she bounced into the room. “I just stopped on my way here to look at a new design for bicycle suits, and—” “I’ve been trying for half a block to catch you, Frances,” said the girl with the classic profile, as she opened the door, in turn; “I’ve been looking at the new bicycles, and was detained longer than I expected.” “Oh, shall you get a new wheel this year?” asked the president. “No, dear,” returned the girl with the classic profile; “but, of course, I wanted to see what they are like.” “Naturally,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “My dears, you never heard of such luck as mine. You know papa said I shouldn’t have a new bicycle this year, if I had to walk—” “Oh, if you call that luck,” said the blue-eyed girl, “my father said the same thing.” “So did mine,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Wait until you hear the rest,” said the girl with the Roman nose, “I had my old machine set in order, and expected to have to do with it all this season. The other day, I went into the store-room to have a look at it, and, to my surprise, found it all splashed with mud, the enamel scratched, and—” “The cook had been riding it, of course,” broke in the president. “I knew that at once, and I went to tell mamma she must discharge her on the spot. However, mamma was lying down with a headache, and as I had some shopping, a luncheon, two teas and a dinner on hand that day, I had no chance to speak to her. Two days later, I remembered it, and went in to look at it—I knew that mamma was so prejudiced against bicycling that I must make the case very bad to excite her sympathy. It was bad enough, by this time, too; one pedal was all bent, the handle-bar was broken, and the enamel was a sight!” “I hope you made your mother discharge that cook on the spot!” said the blue-eyed girl. “I rushed right up to mamma’s room to do it. I opened the door, and a familiar odor greeted me—a combination of arnica and witch hazel, and—” “You forgot all about the cook. Had your mother fallen downstairs?” “No; she hadn’t. The cook had been trying to teach her to ride my bicycle; she had a black eye, a sprained shoulder, and a skinned face. The cook had gone home with a dislocated collar-bone, and I had to wait on mamma, and do all the cooking for two days!” “And you call that luck!” groaned the president. “Not that, dear. But mamma gave me a beautiful new wheel for keeping the whole thing from papa’s ears. And I sold the old one for enough to buy me a lovely new suit,” she added, triumphantly.