The society had a grand meeting on the day of Polly Singleton’s auction. Matters were still very much in a state of chaos, but the rehearsal of some of the parts was got through with credit under the directions of the clever stage-manager, one of the nicest and best girls in the college, Constance Field. She had a knack of putting each girl at her ease— of discovering the faintest sparks of genius and fanning them into flame. Priscilla had learned her speeches accurately: her turn came; she stood up trembling and began. Gradually the stony (or was it yearning?) look in Maggie’s face moved her. She fancied herself Hammond, not the Prince. When she spoke to Maggie she felt no longer like a feeble schoolgirl acting a part. She thought she was pleading for Hammond, and enthusiasm got into her voice, and a light filled her eyes. There was a little cheer when Priscilla got through her first rehearsal. Nancy Banister came up to Rosalind. “I do believe Maggie is right,” she said, “and that Miss Peel will take the part capitally.” “Miss Oliphant is well known for her magnanimity,” retorted Rosalind, an ugly look spoiling the expression of her face. “Her magnanimity? What do you mean, Rose?” “To choose _that_ girl for her Prince!” retorted Rosalind. “Ask Mr. Hammond what I mean. Ask the Elliot-Smiths.” “I don’t know the Elliot-Smiths,” said Nancy in a cold voice. She turned away; she felt displeased and annoyed. Rose glanced after her. Then she ran up to Maggie Oliphant, who was preparing to leave the little theater. “Don’t you want to see the auction?” she said in a gay voice. “It’s going to be the best fun we have had for many a long day.” Maggie turned and looked at her. “The auction? What auction do you mean?” she asked. “Why, Polly Singleton’s, of course. You’ve not heard of it? It’s _the_ event of the term!” Maggie laughed. “You must be talking nonsense, Rose,” she said. “An auction at St. Benet’s! A real auction? Impossible!” “No, it’s not impossible. It’s true. Polly owes for a lot of things, and she’s going to pay for them in that way. Did you not get a notice? Polly declared she would send one without fail to every girl in the college.” “Now I remember,” said Miss Oliphant, laughing. “I got an extraordinary type-written production. I regarded it as a hoax and consigned it to the wastepaper basket.” “But it wasn’t a hoax; it was true. Come away, Miss Oliphant, do. Polly has got some lovely things.” “I don’t think I even know who Polly is,” said Maggie. “She surely is not an inmate of Heath Hall?” “No, no— of Katharine Hall. You must know her by sight, at least. A great big, fat girl, with red hair and freckles.” “Yes, now I remember. I think she has rather a pleasant face.” “Oh, do you really? Isn’t she awfully common and vulgar-looking?” “Common and vulgar-looking people are often pleasant, nevertheless,” retorted Maggie. “You’ll come to her auction?” insisted Rose.