“What’s the matter with it?” demanded Susie Meyer.

“Well, in the first place, there are children in it—­”

“Cut it!  ’Nough said,” pronounced the President.  “Them plays wid kids in ‘em is all out of style.  We giv’ ‘East Lynne’ the turn down an’ there was only one kid in that.  What else have you got in that Gibson book?  Have you got the play with the Gibson goils in it?  We could do that all right, all right.  Ain’t most of us got Gibson pleats in our shirt waists?”

“I don’t see nothin’ about goils,” the Secretary made answer, “but there’s one here about ghosts.  How would that do?”

“Not at all,” said Miss Masters firmly.

“What’s the matter with it?” asked one of the girls abandoning her sewing-machine and coming over to the table.  “I seen posters of it last year.  They are givin’ it in Broadway.  The costoomes would be real easy, just a sheet you know and your hair hanging down.”

“It’s not about that kind of ghost,” Miss Masters explained, “and I don’t think it would do for us as there are very few people in the cast and one of them is a minister.”

“Cut it,” said the President briefly, “we ain’t goin’ to have no hymn singin’ in ours.  We couldn’t, you know,” she explained to Miss Masters, “the most of us is Jewesses.”

“Katie McGuire ain’t no Jewess,” asserted the Secretary.  “She could be the minister if that’s all you’ve got against this Gibson play.  I wish we could give it.  It’s about the only up-to-date Broadway success we can find.  The librarian says you can’t never buy copies of Julia Marlowe’s an’ Ethel Barrymore’s an’ Maude Adams’ plays.  I guess they’re just scared somebody like us will come along an’ do ’em better than they do an’ bust their market.  Actresses,” she went on, “is all jest et up with jealousy of one another.  Is there anythin’ except the minister the matter with ‘Ghosts?’”

“Everything else is the matter with it,” said Miss Masters.  “To begin with, I might as well tell you, it never was a Broadway success.  It’s a play that is read oftener than it’s acted and last year, Jennie, when you saw the posters, it only ran for a week.”

“Cut it,” said the President.  “We ain’t huntin’ frosts.”

The brows of the Hyacinths grew furrowed and their eyes haggard in the search.  Everyone could tell them of plays but no one knew where they could be found in printed form and whenever the librarian found something which might be suitable Miss Masters was sure to know of something to its disadvantage.

And then the real stage, the legitimate Broadway stage intervened.  Albert Marsden produced Hamlet and the Lady Hyacinths determined to follow suit.

“It’s kind of old,” the President admitted, “but there must be some style left to it.  They’re playin’ it on Broadway right now.  An’ we’ll give it on East Broadway just as soon as we can git ready.  Me and Mamie went round to the library last night an’ got it out.  It’s got a dandy lot of parts in it:  more than this club will ever need.  An’ it’s got lots of murders an’ scraps, an’ court ladies an’ soldiers an’ kings.  It’s our play all right!”