It's enough to mark you one to be seen there--you meet all the crazy
guys you see in classes and never anywhere else--and of course that
wouldn't stop when Sylvia's frat sisters began going there. And their
house wouldn't do at _all_ to entertain in--it's queer--no rugs--dingy
old furniture--nothing but books everywhere, even in their substitute
for a parlor--and you're likely to meet not only college freaks, but
worse ones from goodness knows where. There's a beer-drinking old
monster who goes there every Sunday to play the fiddle that you
wouldn't have speak to you on the street for anything in the world.
And the way they entertain! My, in such a countrified way! Some of the
company go out into the kitchen to help Mrs. Marshall serve up the
refreshments--and everything homemade--and they play charades, and
nobody knows what else--bean-bag, or spelling-down maybe--"
This appalling picture, which in justice to the young delineators must
be conceded to be not in the least overdrawn, was quite enough to give
pause to those impetuous and immature young Sophomores who had lacked
the philosophical breadth of vision to see that Sylvia was not an
isolated phenomenon, but (since her family live in La Chance) an
inseparable part of her background. After all, the sororities made no
claim to be anything but social organizations. Their standing in the
college world depended upon their social background, and of course
this could only be made up of a composite mingling of those of their
individual members.
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