It was noon, just after the last morning class, when the Ladies always met in a rush, with much hair combing and toilet flushing and soaping and rinsing of hands. For the last few weeks the petition had been the main topic of conversation; there were rumors that Mr. Pickering had some new scheme up his sleeve. But this noon there was none of that. Allen had come in late (waylaid in the hall by Pickering himself, who wanted to twist her arm) and found them hived by the window with Maxine, of all people, in their buzzing midst. Maxine usually met Max for lunch or went home. She sat on the edge of the table, smiling, blotting her eyes with an absurd lace hanky, and looking happier than any girl had a right to look. The room was awash in sweetness. It was like walking into warm tapioca. “Come in, Allie, wait’ll you hear!” Mae Dell pulled her into the circle. “Show her, Maxine.” Maxine held out her left hand. There on the fourth finger was the diamond, big as a doorknob and flashing blue and gold like a soap bubble in the sun.
