The director's gaze as it flashed about the hall, had
evidently discovered more than the sulky chorus-girl.
The young man wasn't intrinsically formidable--a rather limp,
deprecatory sort, he looked. But, as an emissary from Galbraith, he
quickened Rose's heart-beat a trifle. She smiled though as she made a
small bet with herself that he wouldn't be able to turn her out, even in
his capacity of envoy.
But he didn't come straight to Rose; deflected his course a little
uncertainly, and brought up before a woman who sat in a folding chair a
little farther along the wall.
Rose hadn't observed her particularly before, though she was aware that
one of the "big girls" who had responded promptly to Galbraith's first
call for them, had been talking to her when Rose came in, and she had
assumed her to be somebody connected with the show; at least with an
unchallengeable right to watch its rehearsals. But she had corrected
this impression even before she had heard what John Galbraith's
assistant said to the woman and what she said to him; for she drew
herself defensively erect when she saw him turn toward her, assumed a
look of calculated disdain; tapped a foot inadequately shod for
Chicago's pavements in December, although evidently it had experienced
them--gave, on the whole, as well as she could, an imitation of a
duchess being kept waiting.
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