She had been told that at every third step she must throw a handful of daisies in the path of the on-coming bride, and her effort to keep count and at the same time keep her balance on the high French heels was almost too much for her.
During her many rehearsals M'haley had counted her steps for her: "One, two, three--_throw_! One, two, three--_throw_!" She had gone through her part every time without mistake, for her feet were untrammelled then, and her flat yellow soles struck the ground in safety and with rhythmic precision.

She could give her entire mind to the graceful scattering of her posies.

But now she walked as if she were mounted on stilts, and her way led over thin ice.

The knowledge that she must keep her own count was disconcerting, for she could not "count in her haid," as M'haley had ordered her to do.

She was obliged to whisper the numbers loud enough for herself to hear.