A day or two later Betty, Madeline, Katherine and Helen were in Roberta’s room eating fudge and discussing the forthcoming junior elections. Rachel Morrison was being discussed for class president, and the question before the house was: Should her friends push her now or should they advise keeping her for the greater honor of the senior presidency? It was a difficult question, and not half the pros and cons had been set forth when Mary Brooks knocked on the door.
“Roberta,” she said, surveying the assembly with stern disapproval, “are you having a fudge party?”
“This isn’t a party,” corrected Katherine. “It’s only a political meeting.”
“I see,” said Mary, appropriating the Morris chair and the fudge pan. “What’s up?”
The girls explained.
“Don’t save her,” advised Mary. “Don’t save any one. It’s dangerous. Just look at me; I’ve been saved for president—ever since freshman year. I wasn’t quite dignified enough then, and I wasn’t quite pretty enough for sophomore year. Junior year I didn’t want it, because chairman of the prom. committee is so much more fun; and now it’s decreed that I must manage the senior play.”
“And the ‘Argus,’” added Betty. “I shouldn’t think you’d been saved, Mary. I should think you’d been pretty thoroughly used up.”
“Well, put it as you like,” said Mary modestly. “I’ve done quite a bit of work in my time, I suppose. But your speaking of the ‘Argus,’ Betty, reminds me of something. Do any of you know a girl named Georgia Ames?”
“Never heard of her,” said Katherine promptly.
“Nor I,” added Betty.