Rosalind Merton was not a particularly good actress, but her face was too pretty not to be called into requisition. She was to take the part of Melissa.
The society had a grand meeting on the day of Polly Singleton’s auction. Matters were still very much in a state of chaos, but the rehearsal of some of the parts was got through with credit under the directions of the clever stage-manager, one of the nicest and best girls in the college, Constance Field. She had a knack of putting each girl at her ease—of discovering the faintest sparks of genius, and fanning them into flame.
Priscilla had learned her speeches accurately: her turn came; she stood up trembling and began. Gradually the stony (or was it yearning?) look in Maggie’s face moved her. She fancied herself Hammond, not the Prince. When she spoke to Maggie she felt no longer like a feeble school-girl acting a part. She thought she was pleading for Hammond, and enthusiasm got into her voice, and a light filled her eyes. There was a little cheer when Priscilla got through her first rehearsal. Nancy Banister came up to Rosalind.
“I do believe Maggie is right,” she said, “and that Miss Peel will take the part capitally.”
“Miss Oliphant is well-known for her magnanimity,” retorted Rosalind, an ugly look spoiling the expression of her face.
“Her magnanimity? What do you mean, Rose?”
“To choose that girl for her Prince!” retorted Rosalind. “Ask Mr Hammond what I mean. Ask the Elliot-Smiths.”
“I don’t know the Elliot-Smiths,” said Nancy, in a cold voice. She turned away; she felt displeased and annoyed.
Rose glanced after her; then she ran up to Maggie Oliphant, who was preparing to leave the little theatre.
“Don’t you want to see the auction?” she said, in a gay voice. “It’s going to be the best fun we have had for many a long day.”