“Now, Junior, you know without asking,” she said, “that if anything like that happens, it won’t be in the least little bit my fault. It will be because I haven’t sized up the situation properly.”
“And how,” asked Junior, “have you sized up the situation?”
“I’ve depended,” said Mahala, “upon Edith running true to form. In a given circumstance, she always has done a given thing. I can’t imagine her changing. If she has, there’s nothing to do but accept it gracefully.”
Junior laughed.
“For a level head commend me to you, young woman,” he said. “Now, here is a state secret. My mother and Mrs. Williams are great friends, and”—Junior lowered his voice and spoke through a trumpet made of his hollowed hands, giving himself an excuse to draw very near to Mahala—“my mother has seen the gown and she says it’s a perfect humdinger.”
Mahala’s laugh was young and spontaneous and thoroughly genuine.
“Naturally,” she said, “it would be. I figured on that.”
“And I fancy you figured,” said Junior, “on a dress that in some way will go just a little bit ahead of Edith’s.”
“‘Naturally,’” mimicked Mahala, “being Edith’s best friend and closest companion, I have figured on a dress that I hope and confidently believe will be the prettiest thing on the stage, Commencement night.”
“And I haven’t a doubt,” said Junior, “but you’ve figured as correctly as you ever did in algebra or geometry. But just suppose for once in your fair young life that you’ve figured wrong.”