The Inner Sisterhood | Page 3

entertainment. People said it was going to be crude,

perhaps disagreeable. So I wore that pale-blue silk--old shade of
blue--which I almost ruined at the Monday-night German. When I
entered the dressing-room four or five of my best girl-friends
affectionately kissed me on the cheek, and exclaimed something about
being so glad that I had worn my pretty, pale-blue silk, and that it was
so becoming; and was it not that same "love-of-a-dress" which I had
worn at the Monday-night German? Now I really would believe those
girls malicious if I did not know they were--each one of the dear, sweet
creatures--perfectly devoted to me; because they have told me of their
devotion many times, and I know they would not say any thing they did
not mean--girls in our set never do!
But this painful fact remains: my pale-blue silk is not becoming! I am
entirely too dark to wear pale-blue, and I am just dying for a terra-cotta.
It's the loveliest shade in all the world! Papa likes blue, so I ordered it
to please him, because he is of the opinion that every body looks well
in that color, because mamma always looked well in blue when she was
young and beautiful. That reminds me what several old married women
said to me at the party to-night: "O, my dear, your mamma was
perfectly beautiful when she was your age! And she had so much
attention, and from such nice young men!" And they looked right at
that stupid fellow, for his silent stupidity had driven away all the other
men, who were just as nice as any of mamma's old beaus, too. But
those old ladies could not have meant any thing, because they are dear
mamma's most intimate friends, and I am sure must take a kindly
interest in my welfare. It's a dreadful thing to have had a beautiful
mamma, when you are not considered beautiful yourself, in fact barely
good-looking.
But quickly to bed, or I will look what I am, tired and worn-out, at the
musicale to-morrow evening. I must be fresh and well-rested, because I
am to play, and alone, a most difficult instrumental piece. It's one of
those lovely "Nocturnes." I wonder if I'll be encored? I was not when I
played at the last musicale.
The lights are out! The fire burns low! I thrust back the little
dressing-table, with its pretty oval mirror, beveled edges, and dainty

drapery of pale pink silk and pure white mull. I tenderly take that
withered rose from off the floor, where I rudely tossed it in my anger of
an hour ago.
I forget that stupid fellow, my escort; the pale-blue dress, so often worn;
the random words--idle, thoughtless, and unkind, at least in their effect;
even pretty Belle Mason fades away, and her charm and her triumph no
longer remembered against her. I go a-drifting from all unpleasant
memories! I murmur a prayer learned at mamma's knee long years ago,
and alas! for long years left unsaid. I kneel in the firelight glow, I
tenderly, fondly kiss that red rose. True, it is withered and dead, yet
how sweet it is to my lips, and how dear it is to my heart! Something
whispers that I love the man who gave it me! It seems to quiver to life
again, and tremulous with a strange, new joy, I remember the
hand-touch and the smile which came with the giving of that red rose.
[Illustration: Miss Kate Meadows (of the Inner Sisterhood)]

* * * * *
II
A Dash of Jealousy and Hypocrisy Done up in Old Gold.
* * * * *

ROBERT FAIRFIELD, LOVER.
Robert Fairfield is an average man among men--but he is something
more: He is the ideal man among women. All women have ideals, and
there is not, there can not be a more dangerous piece of heart-furniture.
An ideal is easily broken, sometimes badly damaged, always liable to
injury; and the heart of woman hath not one cabinet-maker who can,
with his touch and skill, bring back one departed charm, one lost
beauty.

I know this man--and yet I do not. I love him--and yet, again, I do not. I
suspect that, woman-like, I am more fond of his charming, delicate
attentions than I am of the man himself. I sometimes fancy that he
loves me; but I am wise enough in my day and generation to be
painfully aware of the fact that just about six other women entertain the
same delicious fancy. He has told me of his love, told me in a gentle,
artistic manner--and doubtless he has told the six other females the
same story; for he need not trouble himself to vary the telling each time,
because he has no fear