F. About him and Sophia?

A. Yes; whether he’ll propose before Lent.

F. How per-fectly horrid! Men are the worst creatures. I declare, I think those dreadful clubs ought to be suppressed.

A. So do I. They do say the most outrageous things. I don’t see how they can sit and listen to them.

F. I don’t, either.

[193]

[193]

A. And they talk over all the scandals.

F. Yes, it is simply diabolical. How perfectly sweet it is to have a brother who will tell you all about it.

A. Isn’t it? It is almost as good as going myself.

F. Will never tells me a single thing (moving on into the hall). Well, be sure you come, and come as early as you can. Good-bye. (Kisses her.)

A. Good-bye. That boa is just as becoming as it can be.

F. Do you think so? Clara Martin’s makes her look as if she hadn’t any neck at all.

A. Oh, you can wear anything.

F. Thank you, dear. But then you can afford to say so, because you can wear anything yourself. Would you ask Jack about the orange feathers?

A. Oh, he wouldn’t know. Men never know what girls have on,—except Clarence Key, and he’s a perfect man-milliner. Did I tell you what he said to Kate West at the Westons’ tea? I’d have scratched his eyes out.

F. No; what in the world did he say?

A. You won’t repeat it? Because I told Kate I wouldn’t tell. She was so furious she had to tell somebody.

F. I’ll never tell. What was it?

A. You know that tailor-made gown she wears? The one made of gray corduroy? Well, Clarence[194] Key asked her if she got it 

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