“If you go to the moon next week, what shall you do with the green cheese?” Eleanor retorted, with an unprecedented outburst of sarcasm.
“I think you might answer my question,” said Madge; and at that instant the door opened and a hush fell upon the room.
The suspense was not painfully prolonged. The Curator of the Art Museum, who had been associated with Mrs. Jacques and Mr. Salome as judge, stepped upon the platform, from which Madge and Eleanor had precipitately retreated, and made the following announcement:
“We have, on the whole,” he said, “been very well pleased with the work we 84 have had to consider. In fact, several of the sketches were better than anything we had looked for. Nevertheless our decision was not a difficult one, and our choice is unanimous. The prize which Mrs. Jacques has had the originality and the generosity to offer has been awarded to Mary Eleanor Merritt.”
“And now will you answer my question?”
Madge and Eleanor were walking home together through the light snow which had just begun to fall. They had been curiously shy of speaking, and, before the silence was broken, a pretty wreath of snow had formed itself about the rim of each of their black felt hats, while little ribbons of it were decorating the folds of their garments.
“What are you going to do with your green cheese?”
“I shall go to Paris next autumn,” said Eleanor, tightly clasping the check which she held inside her muff. 85
“That’s what I thought,” said Madge; and if her eyes grew a trifle red and moist it was perhaps natural enough, since the snow was flying straight into them.