Also, from now on, it would be a serious thing to lose
anybody out of the chorus. I couldn't take anybody who had come down
here--for a lark."
"It's not a lark to me," said Rose.
Now he looked around at her again. "I know it isn't," he said. "But I
thought when you first came in here, that it was."
With that, Rose understood the whole thing. It was evidently a fact that
despite the plain little suit, the beaver hat, the rough ulster she was
wearing, she didn't look like the sort of girl who had to rely on
getting a job in the chorus for keeping a roof over her head. Looks,
speech, manner--everything segregated her from the type. It was all
obvious enough, only Rose hadn't happened to think of it. It accounted,
of course, for the rather odd way in which the landlady, the
ticket-seller at the Globe, and meek little Mr. Quan, the assistant
stage manager, all had looked at her, as at some one they couldn't
classify. John Galbraith, out of a wider experience of life, had
classified her, or thought he had, as a well-bred young girl who, in a
moment of pique, or mischief, had decided it would be fun to go on the
stage.
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