"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!"

The sea of troubles into which the Lady Hyacinths plunged with so much
enthusiasm swallowed them so completely that Miss Masters could only
stand on its shore, looking across to Denmark and wringing her hands
over the awful things that were happening in that unhappy land.
Fortunately she had a friend to whom she could appeal for succour for
the lost but still valiant Hyacinths. He was the sort of person to whom
appeals came as naturally as honors come to some men and, since he had
nothing to do and ample time and money with which to do it, he was
generally helpful and resourceful. That he had once loved Miss Masters