Before I could complete the sentence, I found myself executing an
involuntary parabola over some adjacent parallel bars. My young
friend's brows had contracted into a frown, although she waited
politely for me to pick myself up.

"I thought we agreed not to mention that name!" she said, coldly.

I felt that any attempt to explain my innocence would be received
with quiet scorn. "I--I should like to ask you just one thing
more," I said, desperately, as I lay on my back, "I am really
entirely converted--quite ashamed. I do hope you won't think
me--er--inquisitive--but I have been so often told--it has been so
constantly asserted--" I found myself bungling horribly in my desire
not to offend.

"Pray go on," she said, "we try to be simple and sincere, and we are
always ready to satisfy an intelligent inquirer."

"Well," I said, desperately, "people _do_ say that you all
wear--er--blue stockings. But I am sure," I added quickly, "that it is
not true" ...

It was too late. When the friend who had smuggled me into the building
came to my rescue, he asked me, rather noisily, "if I was feeling
well?" I replied that I was not, and that I did not think I ever
should again. And I never have.

* * * * *