A few days before Commencement, armed with a particularly ornate box of candy and a bunch of long-stemmed roses by way of an ice box from Chicago, he made an evening call upon Mahala. The box of candy she set upon the piano, unopened. The roses she arranged in a large vase. She commented on their wonderful shape and velvet petals, the splendid stems and leaves faintly touched with the bloom of rankly growing things. She said that they were so perfect that it almost seemed that they were not real roses that would yellow and wither in a few days. They talked of the coming Commencement and Junior jestingly asked Mahala if she were going to allow Edith Williams to be more handsomely gowned than she. Mahala was amused that he should think of such a thing. She looked at him with eyes so frank that to the boy they seemed almost friendly. She laughed the contagious laugh of happy youth. “Now, Junior, you know without asking,” she said, “that if anything like that happens, it won’t be in the least little bit my fault. It will be because I haven’t sized up the situation properly.” “And how,” asked Junior, “have you sized up the situation?” “I’ve depended,” said Mahala, “upon Edith running true to form. In a given circumstance, she always has done a given thing. I can’t imagine her changing. If she has, there’s nothing to do but accept it gracefully.” Junior laughed. “For a level head commend me to you, young woman,” he said. “Now, here is a state secret. My mother and Mrs. Williams are great friends, and”—Junior lowered his voice and spoke through a trumpet made of his hollowed hands, giving himself an excuse to draw very near to Mahala—“my mother has seen the gown and she says it’s a perfect humdinger.” Mahala’s laugh was young and spontaneous and thoroughly genuine. “Naturally,” she said, “it would be. I figured on that.” “And I fancy you figured,” said Junior, “on a dress that in some way will go just a little bit ahead of Edith’s.” “‘Naturally,’” mimicked Mahala, “being Edith’s best friend and closest companion, I have figured on a dress that I hope and confidently believe will be the prettiest thing on the stage, Commencement night.” “And I haven’t a doubt,” said Junior, “but you’ve figured as correctly as you ever did in algebra or geometry. But just suppose for once in your fair young life that you’ve figured wrong.” “Well, now, just suppose,” said Mahala. “Of course you have figured on being better dressed by far than any of the other boys. And at the last minute, if John Reynolds or Frederick Hilton should turn up with a later-cut and finer goods than you were wearing, what do you think you could do about it?”