It was some time before this that I'd made up my mind to try for the Savage Prize. The Savage Prize was open to the whole school, and it was for the best oration given at a contest the week before commencement. I was pretty good at what I called speaking pieces, and what they called "vocational expression." And I had some things in my head that I wanted to write about. I'd decided to write on "Growing," and I meant by that just getting different from what you were, that my head was so full of. I had a good deal to say, beginning with that white god that I knew all about now. But Rose Everly didn't know. And I wondered why. One day the principal called me in her office. "Miss Spot has showed me the rough draft of your oration," she said. "It is admirable, Cosma. But I should not emphasize unduly the painful fact that there are many to whom growth is denied. Dwell on the inspiring features of the subject. Let it bring out chiefly sweetness and light." "But--" I says. "That will do, Cosma. Thank you," said the principal. While I was working on the Savage Prize oration, trying to make it "all sweetness and light," Antoinette sent me a note, in history class. "Jolly larks!" she said, "Friday. Dinner at the Dudleys' studio. Opera in the Dudleys' box. Our house for Sunday. Look your best. Baddy Dudley is back--You remember about him?" Mr. Gerald had been promising to take us to the Dudleys' studio. Mr. Dudley's brother, "Baddy," spending that winter in Italy, had had a kodak picture of Antoinette and me and had sent me messages through Gerald. On the night of the party I was dressing in my room at the school when a maid came up with a message. A girl was down-stairs to see me. My lace gown and a white cloak that Antoinette had loaned me were spread on the bed. I was just finishing my hair and tying in it a gold rose of Antoinette's when my visitor came in. It was Rose Everly. I'll never forget how Rose looked. She had on a little tight brown jacket and a woolen cap. Her skirt was wet and her boots were muddy. She stood winking in the light, and panting a little. "My!" she said, "you live high up, don't you?" Then she stood staring at me. "Cosma," she said, "how beautiful!" She dropped into a chair. In that first thing she said she had been the old Rose. Then she got still and shy, and sat openly looking at my clothes. She was not more than twenty-one, and the factory life had not told on her too much. Yet some of the life seemed to have gone out of her. She talked as if not all of her was there. She sat quietly and she looked as if she were resting all over. But her eyes were bright and interested as she looked at my dress. I said, "People have been good to me, Rose. They gave me these." "You're different, too," she said, looking hard at me. "You talk different, too. Oh, dear. I bet you won't do it!" "Tell me what it is," I said, and put the lace dress over my head.