“‘Trick?’” Mahala’s eyes widened. “‘Trick?’ Pardon me, Mama, it was like this: When I wrote the first draft of my speech I said what I thought and felt. You and Papa argued so strongly that I cut it at your suggestion, but every time I rehearsed it, those cut parts would flash through my brain. I couldn’t stop them. I give you my word of honour, I never intended to say them. I didn’t know I was saying them until I heard them, and then I couldn’t stop until I had reached a place where I could get back smoothly. After that, I was very careful. It was the lights, the big crowd, the urge to express what I truly thought—you believe me, don’t you?” “Certainly, my child!” said Mahlon. “Don’t give the matter another thought. I’ve never hoped to be so proud of you. It was a triumph!” “Yes,” conceded Elizabeth, “there is no better word for it; it was a triumph.” Mahala studied the pair of them. She said slowly, reflectively: “If you feel that over one little argument that pushed itself in, I wonder what would have happened if I had been permitted to deliver my whole speech as I wrote it.” “A hint was all right,” said Elizabeth; “more would have ruined it.” She turned to Professor James, who was passing, to inquire: “Professor, did you notice Mahala’s bit of impromptu work?” The Professor looked at them and then at Mahala searchingly. “I’d hardly call that impromptu,” he said. “It so fitted with what had gone before, so rounded out our neighbour’s side of the argument, that I can only say that it is a great pity Mahala did not pursue her conclusions a little further. It would have done all of us good.” Elizabeth was a Tartar. “I scarcely agree with you,” she said primly. “A touch might do, but more smacked too loudly of masculinity. Ladies should allow their men to say those things for them.” Mahala knew, having settled this point to her satisfaction, what would be coming next. She excused herself and hurried to join Edith who was waiting for her, the glamour of her triumph still illuminating her. Her programme was in very plain sight; as Junior came toward them, he could sense it blocking his path. He had been constrained to admit to himself that Edith looked that night as he had not dreamed that it was possible that she could. But he never had liked her. He did not care for her now, and every fibre of his being was in irritated protest against that sheaf of lilies and roses that had been given Mahala. It might have been from her father or mother, possibly she had out-of-town relatives, but if she had, why had she never mentioned them? Who was there who could have shown the taste and spent the money, and who had dared to set one blood-red rose in a sheaf of virgin white?