"That," said Patty, "is the fault of the language. The logic, I think, you will find correct. You can see what would happen," she pursued, "if you carry it out to its logical conclusion. Suppose, for instance, that every woman I have ever met in this town should suddenly take it into her head to invite me to a dinner. Here I--perfectly unsuspicious and innocent of any evil, because of a purely arbitrary law which I did not help to make--would not only have to sit down and write a hundred regrets, but would have to pay a hundred calls within the next two weeks. It makes me shudder to think of it!" "I don't believe you need worry about it, Patty; of course we know you're popular, but you're not as popular as that." "No," said Patty; "I didn't mean that I thought I really _should_ get that many invitations. It's only that one is open to the constant danger." During the progress of this conversation Georgie Merriles had been lounging on the couch by the window, reading the "Merchant of Venice" in a critically unimpassioned way that the instructor in Dramatic Theory could not have praised too much. The room finally having become too dark for reading, she threw down the book with something like a yawn. "It would have been a joke on Portia," she remarked, "if Bassanio had chosen the wrong casket"; and she turned her attention to the campus outside. Groups of girls were coming along the path from the lake, and the sound of their voices, mingled with laughter and the jingling of skates, floated up through the gathering dusk. Across the stretches of snow and bare trees lights were beginning to twinkle in the other dormitories, while nearer at hand, and more clearly visible, rose the irregular outline of the president's house. "Patty," said Georgie, with her nose against the pane, "if you really want to get that call out of the way, now's your chance. Mrs. Millard has just gone out." Patty dashed into her bedroom and began jerking out bureau drawers. "Priscilla," she called in an agonized tone, "do you remember where I keep my cards?" "It's ten minutes of six, Patty; you can't go now." "Yes, I can. It doesn't matter what time it is, so long as she's out. I'll go just as I am." "Not in a golf-cape!" Patty hesitated an instant. "Well," she admitted, "I suppose the butler might tell her. I'll put on a hat"--this with the air of one who is making a really great concession. Some more banging of bureau drawers, and she appeared in a black velvet hat trimmed with lace, with the brown jacket of her suit over her red blouse, and a blue golf-skirt and very muddy boots showing below. "Patty, you're a disgrace to the room!" cried Priscilla. "Do you mean to tell me that you are going to Mrs. Millard's in a short skirt and those awful skating-shoes?" "The butler won't look at my feet; I'm so beautiful above"; and Patty banged the door behind her. Georgie and Priscilla flattened themselves against the window to watch the progress of the call.