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“Go ahead,” said Madeline briefly. “If I’ve invented something that can be used to tease Mary Brooks, I shall feel like a public benefactor. Georgia is yours till further notice.”

A day or two later Betty, Madeline, Katherine and Helen were in Roberta’s room eating fudge and discussing the forthcoming junior elections. Rachel Morrison was being discussed for class president, and the question before the house was: Should her friends push her now or should they advise keeping her for the greater honor of the senior presidency? It was a difficult question, and not half the pros and cons had been set forth when Mary Brooks knocked on the door.

“Roberta,” she said, surveying the assembly with stern disapproval, “are you having a fudge party?”

“This isn’t a party,” corrected Katherine. “It’s only a political meeting.”

“I see,” said Mary, appropriating the Morris chair and the fudge pan. “What’s up?”

The girls explained.

“Don’t save her,” advised Mary. “Don’t save any one. It’s dangerous. Just look at me; I’ve been saved for president—ever since freshman year. I wasn’t quite dignified enough then, and I wasn’t quite pretty enough for sophomore year. Junior year I didn’t want it, because chairman of the prom. committee is so much more fun; and now it’s decreed that I must manage the senior play.”