Yet she never seemed really to work in
rehearsal. She gave no more than a bare outline of what she was going to
do. But the outline, in all its salient angles, was perfectly
indicated. She rehearsed in her ordinary street clothes, with her hat
on, and as often as not, with a wrist-bag in one hand. She neither
danced, sang, nor acted. But she had her part letter perfect before any
of the other principals. She never missed a cue, and though she sang off
the top of her voice, and let the confines of a very scant little tailor
skirt mark the limits of her dancing, she sang her songs in perfect
tempo and always made it completely clear to Galbraith and the musical
director, just how much of the stage in every direction, her dances were
going to occupy and precisely the _tempi_ at which they were to be
executed. In a word, if her work had no more emotional value than a
mechanical drawing, it did have the precision of one.
Rose mightn't have appreciated tins, had she not seen and admired Miss
Devereux from the front in a production she and Rodney had been two or
three times to see the season before.
Pages:
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483