“You certainly acquitted yourself nobly,” broke in Elizabeth, “and yet, little daughter, didn’t you serve Papa and Mama rather a naughty trick?”
“‘Trick?’” Mahala’s eyes widened. “‘Trick?’ Pardon me, Mama, it was like this: When I wrote the first draft of my speech I said what I thought and felt. You and Papa argued so strongly that I cut it at your suggestion, but every time I rehearsed it, those cut parts would flash through my brain. I couldn’t stop them. I give you my word of honour, I never intended to say them. I didn’t know I was saying them until I heard them, and then I couldn’t stop until I had reached a place where I could get back smoothly. After that, I was very careful. It was the lights, the big crowd, the urge to express what I truly thought—you believe me, don’t you?”
“Certainly, my child!” said Mahlon. “Don’t give the matter another thought. I’ve never hoped to be so proud of you. It was a triumph!”
“Yes,” conceded Elizabeth, “there is no better word for it; it was a triumph.”
Mahala studied the pair of them. She said slowly, reflectively: “If you feel that over one little argument that pushed itself in, I wonder what would have happened if I had been permitted to deliver my whole speech as I wrote it.”
“A hint was all right,” said Elizabeth; “more would have ruined it.”
She turned to Professor James, who was passing, to inquire: “Professor, did you notice Mahala’s bit of impromptu work?”
The Professor looked at them and then at Mahala searchingly.
“I’d hardly call that impromptu,” he said. “It so fitted with what had gone before, so rounded out our neighbour’s side of the argument, that I can only say that it is a great pity Mahala did not pursue her conclusions a little further. It would have done all of us good.”
Elizabeth was a Tartar.