¶ The Ivy Procession marches to the steps two and two, each girl with an enormous American Beauty in her hand. At every step the girls with cameras snap and turn, so that the sound resembles a miniature volley of cannon. There is a comparative silence during their progress.
Mother and daughter standing on their seats under awning, clutching at the heads of those near them for support.
Mother. Who is that with Susy, dear?
Daughter. That's the vice-president—I don't know her name. Sue looks pale, doesn't she?
Mother. And that's Bess Twitchell next—with the tucks. She's Ivy Orator, you know. I think Sue's dress drops too much in the back—Ah, Miss Fosdick has stepped on it! Good heavens—right on that Valenciennes! (She sits down abruptly.)
¶ The procession winds slowly up and groups itself on the steps. The last third stands a long while before the awning and exchanges somewhat conscious remarks with its friends outside the rope, which the ushers endeavor to carry without straining or dropping: this attempt puckers their foreheads and tilts their hats.
A group of last year's graduates standing close to the enclosure.
First Graduate. Stunning gowns, aren't they?
Second Graduate. Awfully. Prettiest I ever saw. And so different, too! And yet they're all alike—organdie over silk or satin, mostly. Isn't Sue Jackson's lovely?
Third Graduate. I like Esther Brookes'; it's so plain, but there's not a more artistic—