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And I'm really very much obliged to you."
"You will come along then?"
"Yes," said Rose, "I'll come."
"No flutters?" questioned Galbraith. "No eleventh-hour repentance?"
"No," said Rose, "I'll see it through."
John Galbraith went away satisfied. Rose had the same power that he had,
of making a simple unemphatic statement irresistibly convincing. When
she said that she would go through, he knew that unless struck by
lightning, she would. But there had been something at once ironic and
tender about the girl's smile, when she had spoken of the only one who
really mattered, that he couldn't account for. Who was the only one that
really mattered, anyway? Her husband? He didn't think it likely. Young
women who quarreled with their husbands and ran away from them to go on
the stage, wouldn't, as far as his experience went, be likely to smile
over them like that. More probably a brother--a younger brother,
perhaps, fiercely proud as such a boy would be of such a sister.
She certainly had sand, that girl.


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