Maggie Oliphant had been unanimously selected to take the part of the Princess.  She electrified every one by drawing Miss Peel toward her and saying in an emphatic voice: 

“You must be the Prince, Priscilla.”

A look of dismay crept over several faces.  One or two made different proposals.

“Would not Nancy Banister take the part better, Maggie?” said Miss Claydon, a tall, graceful girl, who was to be Psyche.

“No; Nancy is to be Cyril.  She sings well and can do the part admirably.  Miss Peel must be the Prince:  I will have no other lover.  What do you say, Miss Peel?”

“I cannot; it is impossible,” almost whispered Prissie.

“‘Cannot’ is a word which must not be listened to in our Dramatic Society,” responded Maggie.  “I promise to turn you out a most accomplished Prince, my friend; no one shall be disappointed in you.  Girls, do you leave this matter in my hands?  Do you leave the Prince to me?”

“We cannot refuse you the privilege of choosing your own Prince, Princess,” said Miss Claydon with a graceful curtsy.

The others assented, but unwillingly.  Miss Oliphant was known to be more full of whims than any one else in the college.  Her extraordinary and sudden friendship for Prissie was regarded as her latest caprice.

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 schoolgirl 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.