many waists, and I don’t wonder! I don’t wear them any more, anyway; nobody does.

“And vivisection? Oh, yes, I read a lot about that. They want poor, dumb animals to have a vote. Oh, I understand those things well enough, but I’m really too busy to do much about them. Oh, you only want me to lend my name. Yes, I do want honest politics; but I think they’re too honest as it is. They won’t let you smuggle in a little bit of lace or anything like that, as we used to do. I don’t mind paying the customs, but it’s so much more fun to smuggle! As if two or three little bits of lace would hurt the United States government!

“Equal rights? Have half of Bob’s money? Oh, I have more than that now! What! Some women don’t? Well, if they don’t know how to get it, they don’t deserve to have it.

“And, then, you see, I’m such a home-body, and I’m perfectly daffy over my children! You should see Bobbins since he had his curls cut off! Broke my heart; but such a duck of a mannie! And Gwen is the dearest baby! Just think! Yesterday she was eating her bread and jam, and she said—Oh, well, of course, if you haven’t time to listen—Yes, I see,—business.

“Well,—Oh, I never could speak in public! Oh, just sit on the stage and wear lovely gowns? Yes, I’d rather like that.

“Well, I suppose I might be persuaded to become a suffragist; but I think I’d rather have an aeroplane.

“Yes, I do believe in independence. I think every woman ought to have a mind of her own and decide upon her own actions. I hate a wobbly-minded woman! Well, about this suffrage business, I’ll ask my husband and do as he says.”

SHOPPING FOR POSTAGE STAMPS

“You keep stamps, don’t you?”

“Yes, Miss; what kind?”

“Why, I don’t know. But I want something that will go well with blue note paper.”

“Yes, miss; do you want letter postage?”

“Of course! I want to post letters, not chairs or tables!”

“Where are the letters to? United States?”

“Be careful young man, or I’ll report you for rudeness. I won’t tell you where the letter is going, it’s private correspondence, but it is in the United States.”

“Then you want a two-cent stamp; here you are.”

“Oh, red ones! Never! Do you suppose I’d put that sickly shade of crushed gooseberry juice on my robin’s egg blue envelopes? Is this the nearest thing you have in two-cent stamps?”

“The very latest style, I assure you.”

“Well, they won’t do. Why, they aren’t fit for anything, unless to make a stamp plate with. Haven’t you any blue ones?”

“Yes, we have a nice line of blue ones, at five cents each.”

“Oh, the price doesn’t matter; let me see them, please.”

“Here they are, beautiful shade of blue.”

“H’m; good enough shade, but it doesn’t quite harmonize with my envelopes. You see they are a sorty of greenishy-blue, and your stamps are more indigoish. Do you expect any new ones in?”

“Well, not any different colors.”

“Oh, dear, that’s always the way! But maybe I could take some of these and dye them with my Easter egg dyes, to match my paper. I did that with some lace, and it worked awfully well! What’s the lightest color you have?”

“These pale green ones are as light as any. But if you dye them blue you can’t use them.”

“Why not?”

“The government won’t allow it.”

“How mean! As if it made any difference to them what color stationery people use! It almost makes me want to be a suffragette when I hear of such tyranny! Not that I’d really be one! I’m too fearfully afraid of a mouse! But I’d like to have a few rights about postage stamps. I do think the selection is very limited. There’s more beauty and variety in cigar bands. Well, I’ll look at these violet ones. How much are they?”

“These are three cents apiece.”

“H’m, two for five cents, I suppose. Well, I could get violet note paper, and use violet ink; then these stamps would do nicely.”

“And they’d match your eyes fairly well, too.”

“Isn’t that queer! Everybody says I have violet eyes, but, really they’re not a bit the color of these stamps, you know.”

“No? Look at me and let me see; well, no, they’re not exactly the same shade, but they’re violet eyes, all right. How many stamps will you have?”

“Two, please; but won’t you give them to me out of the middle of the sheet? Those around the edge seem a little faded.”

“We can’t tear stamps out of the middle of a sheet!”

“Oh, yes, you can, if you try—if I ask you to try! I’ll take that one, and that one!”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. This one did you say? And this one?”

“Yes, please. Will you wrap them up in a neat parcel, and send them? Good morning.”

AT THE BRIDGE TABLE

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Sevier, I’m going to play at this table. Where do I sit? Here? Perhaps you’d rather have this seat, with your back to the light, don’t you know? Cut for partners? Ace low. Why, isn’t that funny! I always thought the ace was the highest card of all, if you don’t use a joker. And you don’t in Bridge. Do you? No; I haven’t played very much, but I’m quick at catching on. I always say Bridge is for those who are too old or too married to flirt. Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sevier, of course you’re not either! Well, I know you’ve been married twice, but that isn’t much nowadays. I’m perfectly sure I never shall be married at all. Of course, I’m only nineteen, but I think I look older. No? Well, one can’t tell about one’s looks. Mother says very few sensible men would want to marry me! But I tell her very few would be enough. Now, you needn’t laugh at that, Mr. Chapman, it’s quite true. Are you my partner? No? Oh, I play with Mr. Ritchie, and you play with Mrs. Sevier. Very well, let’s begin.”

“Shall we play Lilies?”

“Play Lilies? Why, Mr. Chapman, I thought we were to play Bridge! I took half a dozen lessons a year ago. I haven’t played since, but I’ve a marvelous memory. Oh, I see, you’re just chaffing me, because my name is Lilly! You mean you’ll play Lilly’s game. Now, you’ll excuse me, won’t you, if I sort my cards face down, on the table? Why, I seem to have five suits! I declare, my hand is a perfect rubbish heap! Oh, Mrs. Sevier, have you joined that new City Beautiful Club? I’m on the Rubbish Committee, and I have to read a paper on the æsthetic decoration of ash cans, or Art in Rubbish. It’s such fun! I love women’s clubs. I’m going to join another. I forget what it’s called, but they want poor, dumb animals to have a vote, or something like that. Well, come on, people, let’s play Bridge. Oh, don’t look like that, Mr. Ritchie! Gay and festive, please! Is it my deal? Well, you just deal for me. I always come out wrong.

“What are my conventions? Really, I haven’t any. I’m the most unconventional person you ever saw. Why, mother says—but speaking of conventions, our Federated Clubs are going to have a stunning convention next week. That’s where I’m going to read my paper. I’ve a screaming new costume—and a hat! Well, if I began to tell you about that hat it