“That is only your sweet modesty, dear,” said the girl with the classic profile. “What do you think Mr. Bonds said the other day! Ah, I was so indignant! He said it was a mistake to say that women could not throw stones.” “I don’t see why you were indignant at that,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “It seems to me—” “It wasn’t that. It was what came afterward. He said he knew it was a libel for they could—at each other! And every man in the room laughed as if he had said something clever!” “I declare,” said the brown-eyed blonde, “it is enough to make a man-hater of me. If only people would not say that it was because of some particular man who failed to admire me—” “There is no danger of it being laid to the door of any _one_ man in your case, dear,” said the blue-eyed girl. “Is that your new gown that you are wearing to-day, Frances, dear?” “Why, yes. Quite a novelty, isn’t it. How do you like it?” “Very much indeed, dear. I stopped and looked at it hanging in the cleaner’s window the other day, and thought how well it looked. You remember, don’t you, Dorothy, my calling your attention to it?” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Quite well. I thought at the time that it was well she had not attempted to clean it herself. By the way, Helen’s little boy said such a clever thing the other day. We were speaking of favorite perfumes, and how nice it was to always use the same one, and he said: ‘I know what is Miss Frances’ favorite perfume. Her gloves always smell of it.’ ‘And what is it?’ Helen asked. ‘Gasoline,’ said the dear little fellow. Did you ever hear anything so clever in your life?” “Oh, girls,” said the president, hastily, “speaking of gloves: I had a letter from Pauline the other day, and such a heart-rending thing had occurred to her. A nice man was buttoning her gloves one day, and he said she had the hand of a fairy—Pauline seemed to think that an original remark.” “Perhaps it was the first time she had ever had it said to her,” replied the blue-eyed girl. “Um—perhaps it was. She said carelessly, ‘Do you think so? Why, I consider it quite large. I wear a number six.’ She was sorry for that afterward.” “I suppose he looked in the other glove, and—saw that she had made a mistake,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “No, dear. But, shortly after that, they made a bet of a dozen pairs of gloves, and Pauline won. Oddly enough, she didn’t know it until the gloves arrived. They were number six, and—” “Pshaw, she could exchange them for a larger size; he would never know the difference,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Not in this case, dear. He had had her monogram embroidered on the top of each pair. And now he is offended that she does not wear them!” “How exactly like a man,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Now, I have too high a regard for truth to—” “Waste it on such a little thing as that? I know,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “Well, I hope Pauline’s mishap will be a warning to you.”