“Well, then, Mary, all I can advise is to pay the bill and not say anything more about it. If you haven’t change enough, I can lend—”
“And I glory in its truth.”
Sinking back in her chair as though this was too much to be borne, Elizabeth sighed deeply, then said, “I’m surely surprised at you, Mary. Affairs have come to a pretty pass when you’re in debt and take glory in it.”
Mary laughed, tossed aside her paper, and coming over to her roommate, sat down beside her. “It’s my new oration. Miss Brosius called me into her office, and gave me this to learn. It is really very fine—effective, if my voice was not quite so high-pitched. Listen, I’ve learned so much already.” She tossed back her locks and assumed a rostrum manner, “‘I’m charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true and I glory in its truth. Whoever achieved anything great in letters, art or arms who was not ambitious? Cæsar was not more ambitious than Cicero, it was only in another way.’ That’s all I’ve learned. Miss Brosius went over so much with me that I would get into the spirit of the piece. I wish you might hear her read it! She’s such a dainty little creature, but she looked tall when she was rolling this out.”
“What is it for? You’ve had all your oratory work long ago.”
“This is especially for commencement. You see, we don’t have the old-style exercises. The Dean from some other school or some eminent divine comes to deliver a lecture. There’s music wherever there’s a loophole to slip it in. Then the class in cap and gown parade across the stage and receive their diplomas from Dr. Morgan. Oh, it’s all very fine and elegant and all that. But there’s no fun in it. The element of humor is lacking, and after an hour of it, the simple dignity of it palls on one. And as for the dresses! Most of the girls wear simple white shirtwaist suits under their gowns. There are receptions, to be sure; but the Middlers and Freshmen attend them, and dress as much as the Seniors do. The only opportunity a Senior has to trail a long gown after her is on Class-day. Then we have all the old orthodox orations and music with a two-act farce thrown in, and we may wear what we please. And let me announce right here, Elizabeth Hobart, your roommate will appear in the handsomest white evening dress she can get—train, short sleeves, high-heeled shoes, and hair piled on top of my head.”
Elizabeth looked at the short locks, barely touching the speaker’s shoulders. She laughed.
“You think it can’t be done!” exclaimed Mary, with the characteristic toss of her head. “But it can. I’m going to have a hairdresser. Yes, indeed. When I assume the role, I mean to carry it out. Wait until you see Mrs. Jones. She can take two hairs and twist them about until they look like nothing else so much as Paderewski. She has fine switches, too.” This was added after a moment’s thought, and confidentially, as though it was not information to be passed around. Then with a sigh of satisfaction, “One can work wonders with switches.”
“You’re not to mention to anyone what I am to do for Class-day. Those matters are supposed to be secrets. Of course, you could not help knowing, for I must practice here.”
In the days following, it was made plain that Elizabeth could not have been kept from the knowledge of what Mary was doing. From morning until evening, at all times, opportune and otherwise, Mary orated. When her throat grew husky from her efforts, she compared samples of white tulle, and point d’esprit, and embroidered mull. She insisted upon Elizabeth’s opinion in regard to each one of them.