“This is Gloria Hazeltine,” she announced to the monster class.
And just as the moon and stars fade out of view when the sun comes up, so the less vivid attraction of Myra and Florence dimmed into insignificance beside the appealing radiance that was Gloria’s.
“O-oh, isn’t she sweet!” breathed a girl near Peggy. “I never saw anything like that hair in my life. For goodness’ sake, somebody lend me a knife to sharpen my pencil so that I can vote all over again for her!”
If she were nothing besides sweet, argued Peggy to herself, she would never have been put up. Most of the girls were that. But she understood that the rapturous tribute of her neighbor meant far more than the words she had chosen.
The quality of graceful and unconscious leadership seemed stamped in Gloria’s face, as she smiled out on the freshmen, who were all beginning to go wild over her at once.
The slips were passed again while the three candidates faced their different constituents.
All anxiety had passed from Peggy’s mind. She was sure who had won.
The slips rustled triumphantly when they had been sorted after the voting and were passed up to the Junior again.
“Twenty for Florence Thomas,” she read aloud without raising her eyes from the papers. “Fifty for Myra Whitewell, and—all the rest for Gloria Hazeltine—Miss Hazeltine is elected president of your class!”
With that announcement something happened to the class. Instantaneously the fusion took place.