“I had planned something myself for the next meeting, something which has never been done,” said she, “something new, and stimulating.”

“Oh, how lovely!” cried Annie.

“But of course, like all really clever plans for the real good and progress of a club like ours, something has to come up to prevent,” said Margaret.

“Oh, what?”

“Well, I had planned to have Lydia Greenway, you know she is really a great artist, come to the next meeting and give dramatic recitations.”

“Oh, would she?” gasped Annie Eustace.

“Of course, it would have meant a large pecuniary outlay,” said Margaret, “but I was prepared, quite prepared, to make some sacrifices for the good of the club, but, why, you must have read it in the papers, Annie.”

Annie looked guiltily ignorant.

“I really do not see how you contrive to exist without keeping more in touch with the current events,” said Margaret.

Annie looked meekly culpable, although she was not.  Her aunts did not approve of newspapers, as containing so much information, so much cheap information concerning the evil in the world, especially for a young person like Annie, and she was not allowed to read them, although she sometimes did so surreptitiously.

“It was in all the papers,” continued Margaret, with her censorious air.  “Lydia Greenway was obliged to leave unexpectedly and go to the Riveria.  They fear tuberculosis.  She sailed last Saturday.”

“I am so sorry,” said Annie.  Then she proceeded to elaborate her statement in exactly the wrong way.  She said how very dreadful it would be if such a talented young actress should fall a victim of such a terrible disease, and what a loss she would be to the public, whereas all that Margaret Edes thought should be at all considered by any true friend of her own was her own particular loss.

“For once the Zenith Club would have had a meeting calculated to take Fairbridge women out of their rut in which people like Mrs. Slade and Mrs. Sturtevant seem determined to keep them,” returned Margaret testily.  Annie stared at her.  Margaret often said that it was the first rule of her life never to speak ill of any one, and she kept the letter of it as a rule.

“I am so sorry,” said Annie.  Then she added with more tact.  “It would have been such a wonderful thing for us all to have had Lydia Greenway give dramatic recitals to us.  Oh, Margaret, I can understand how much it would have meant.”

“It would have meant progress,” said Margaret.  She looked imperiously lovely, as she sat there all frilled about with white lace and silk with the leaf-shadows playing over the slender whiteness.  She lifted one little hand tragically.  “Progress,” she repeated.  “Progress beyond Mrs. George B. Slade’s and Mrs. Sturtevant’s and Miss Bessy Dicky’s, and that is precisely what we need.”