Three to One

On Saturday night the incredible happened; the extraordinary; the overwhelming, the Women's Club had a party, and the proportion of men to women was 3 to 1. Nothing like this has ever happened before the Commitee, watching at the door as masculine overcoat after masculine overcoat emerged from the rain and gloom without, fainted away in couples, and had to be hastily revived because there were so few girls anyway. And for the first hour or so the surplus men wandered round saying plaintively. "But isn't this a Women's Club party?" and suggesting the importation of girls in bulk.

In spite of this slight accident, however, everyone got through the evening very nicely. People played active games with balloons and things, and intellectual games with pencils and absorbed expression; and ambled up to gaze owlishly at photographs of various famous people when very young. Brookie in a sailor suit, and Ilott with a fish, and Jack Aimers with a lovely smile, then there was supper—an excellent, bountiful supper; and finally everyone sang hard—yes, "Rollo" again—and then disappeared into the storm again. Large bunches of men together.

—K.R.

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Did you see all those people round the Colonial History books in the library last Thursday at 2 minutes to 8! Thirteen in the space of two shelves! It looked almost as if Dr. Beaglehole had set a paper, and they had all come to turn over new leaves. By and by Doc. Beaglehole himself appeared. I wound why? To turn over a new leaf too?