“Of course you could,” said the president, “and so could I. But, Tom was awfully unpleasant—he couldn’t have been more so if we had been married twenty years instead of two. He said he didn’t see any use in my poking about among the civic organizations of ancient Greece, when I did not know what ward I lived in.” “Humph! I suppose next thing he will be saying that he doesn’t see any use in the Teacup Club,” said the girl with the classic profile, in sarcastic tones. “A man will say anything when he is angry.” “Humph! I fancy he will hardly say anything like that, dear. He knows it has its use, if it is only to make me look more leniently on his own club. When we first organized it he complained a good deal about the demands it made on my time and attention, and I just said: ‘Oh, very well, dear, let us both give up our clubs, and spend all our spare time at home together.’ After that, he held his peace on the subject.” “But you wouldn’t have given it up, would you?” asked the brown-eyed blonde, anxiously. “Of course not—but Tom didn’t know that. By the way, Emily, what is making Dorothy so late to-day?” “I fancy she is engaged,” replied the girl with the dimple in her chin, demurely; “at least Jack Bittersweet was on his way to call on her a couple of hours ago, and I suppose—Pardon me, Frances, did you speak?” “I—I was about to say, ‘how nice’—for Dorothy, I mean. By the way, girls, I—I am thinking of going to Omaha for a nice, long visit as soon as I can get ready.” “But I thought you had already refused Lola’s invitation,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I—I had. But, really I have bought so many pretty things of late that I can get ready for my visit without the slightest trouble, and as my last visit was cut short, I—” “Yes, I remember that quite well, dear. I remember that you came home a few days after Dorothy broke with poor Jack. But I don’t understand why you have been embroidering so much table linen lately. You surely will not need that for a visit to Omaha.” “Why, er—no. I—I shall take it as a present to Lola’s mother, I think. You have no idea of how fond she is of me.” “Indeed, I have, dear,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, warmly. “I’ve often noticed that married women who have no grown sons _are_ fond of you. It is rather a pity, as things turned out, that you cut your last visit short; I am really afraid, if you go now, that you will miss Dorothy’s wedding.” “At any rate, dear, she will not miss it herself. Really, I think the poor girl would have lost her mind if she had lost Jack. These disappointments are so hard to bear that—” “I shall tell her that you said so, dear. I am sure she and Jack will both—” “Oh, girls,” said the president, hastily, “do you suppose that Greek women used actually to wear those dowdy gowns on the street? Of course they would do very well for tea gowns, but—”