A pretty, wilful, egotistical picture this first candidate presented to the freshman class. Myra was the sort of girl who would always have blindly devoted followers willing to put up with her whims and ill-tempers because they believed her to be of finer clay than the rest of the world.
She herself was superbly conscious of this extra fineness. She scanned the eager faces of the crowd with quick glances, haughty, like a young princess reviewing her humble but faithful subjects.
“And this is Florence Thomas,” continued the Junior, her eyes sparkling just a bit with the fun of the little drama.
And the class saw Florence Thomas for just what she was—a nice, ordinary, typical girl like most of them; possessed of a good deal of executive ability if it was forced into action, neither markedly self-centered nor self-sacrificing.
She had a little round face, with wavy dark-brown hair around it. They got no very distinct impression of the second candidate further than this. She was without the rare gift of personality that “gets across,” and hence her undoubted, sterling qualities had little opportunity for appeal.
Her face was flushed with her sudden prominence, and there was a trace of embarrassment in her smile.
Peggy’s thought raced back over Florence’s characteristics while at Andrews. Florence was just the type to have an important place in a small school, where each individual girl could get to know her and love her. But here among these hundreds there was nothing about her striking enough to hold their attention at first glance.
A warm feeling of affection surged up in Peggy’s heart for her last year’s comrade.
Just for a moment she would have forced Florence down their throats whether or not, if she could, without regard for the fact that she believed another girl was infinitely better fitted for the post.
That other girl’s name was now being spoken by the Junior.